


Tidal Pull

by sabrecmc



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adventurer Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Shipwrecked, American Civil War, BAMF Tony Stark, Bottom Steve Rogers, Consentacles, Cursed objects, Enthusiastic Consentacles, Identity Porn, Internalized Homophobia, Irish Steve Rogers, Language Barrier, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Octo Tony, Octopus Tony Stark, POV Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pirates, Shipwrecks, Tentacle Dick, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, The Ten Rings (Marvel), Top-topus Tony Stark, Union Soldier Steve Rogers, Virgin Steve Rogers, background James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 15:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 97,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrecmc/pseuds/sabrecmc
Summary: After the American Civil War, Union soldier Steve Rogers takes a chance on an opportunity to sail with the Stark Trading Company down in the Caribbean. During a terrible storm, his ship is lost. To his surprise, he survives, and ends up stranded on an island that isn't quite as deserted as he first thinks.Or, a reverse Little Mermaid tale where Steve has to fall for the fish-man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you, as always, to my beta tastes-like-coconut, not just for being an amazing beta, but for her wonderful art and inspiration for this fic. This one's for you, my dear!
> 
> I should mention that there is some period-typical language used herein, so be forewarned. No, not THAT word, geez, but still.

Another wave crashed into the side of the ship, tilting the  _ Valkyrie _ ’s mast nearly parallel with the swirling, white-capped waters below, and Steve nearly lost his grip on the wheel again. He staggered upright, caught the wheel before it could spin and heaved it starboard, managing to ride another one of the massive swells stirred up by the storm until the ship righted herself. For the moment. 

The rain was coming down in torrents, making it all but impossible to see anything beyond the sides of the ship, though he knew the sea still churned with the storm’s rage. The foremast had long since splintered in two, its spiked remains pointing at the sky and the foresail billowing around the deck like a shroud. The entire below deck was overrun, all the stores, the crew quarters, everything, and Steve could see the icy fingers of the sea herself bubbling up from below with each swell, nearly to the top step like the sea was slowly crawling its way to the main deck. Even now, over the roar of the ocean, Steve could hear the groaning of the ship’s hull where she pitched and rolled against the sea.

It wouldn’t be long now, he knew. 

Already, the ship rode far too low, making it all but impossible to crest the waves that had battered them nearly continuously during the storm. Maybe they could have made it had they not been so weighed down with cargo, or had Captain Zemo not waited so long to start tossing the extra weight. Or, better yet, had the good Captain not insisted on sailing the faster route that took them through the storm instead of trying to go around it. There were a lot of maybes, Steve thought, watching as another streak of lightning split the night sky where dark clouds still hung low, as if trying to touch the sea. 

Maybe it would be quick, when the time came. Maybe drowning really was as painless as they said. Maybe the others would actually make it to safety against impossible odds. Maybe a lot of things. 

They would make it, he told himself firmly. The ship’s single dinghy wasn’t much in the face of a storm like this, but it was sound, and the  _ Valkyrie  _ herself was taking on water faster than they could pump it out. There hadn’t been another choice. A short lull in the storm, one terrible chance for them, and no choice for him.

Someone had to hold the ship steady and see to the winches while the dinghy was lowered. It had seemed right to volunteer, seeing as how Steve had been the one to finally grow tired enough of the Captain’s indecisiveness to punch the man squarely in the jaw, knocking him to the deck and leaving Steve staring down a crew of scared sailors, many younger still than Steve. Just boys, really, and none with his military training. It had seemed brave, then. Obvious. 

Of course, it should be him who stayed. A clear moment of purpose, when so much since the end of the War hadn’t seemed to matter, and maybe some part of him thought of this as penance, in a way, or a second chance to get it right. He hadn’t been able to save Bucky the day they hit the convoy of rebel wagons transporting the Confederate advisor who Grant had wanted so badly. The man who had come back from that hellhole at Andersonville had been little more than a shadow of himself, though Natasha’s last letter said he was making progress. 

Steve sometimes thought Nat was a very good liar. 

Watching the cabin boy, Peter, stare back up at him as the dinghy slowly lowered into the churning sea, desperately trying not to let it bash the hull while the men used the oars to brace against the side, Steve had felt that sense of calm certainty that he was doing the right thing. It was the same preternatural sureness that usually came over him on the eve of a battle, and God, had he missed that, the raw knowing that what he was doing was right and the feeling of freedom that came with it. It had been so long. So long since he had been sure of anything. Wasn’t that why he ended up down here in the first place, trying to find a new life in a world that didn’t seem to know what to do with him, now that the War was over?

But, now, it was just him. Just him, and the ship sinking beneath him, heaving with waves that would have topped trees back on land. Death had been just over his shoulder for too long to truly fear, but Steve hadn’t imagined when he struck out for fortune and adventure and anything that wasn’t the one-room apartment in Brooklyn he couldn’t stand to share with Nat and Bucky anymore, that his end would be a watery grave and little more than Sam’s promise that he’d see that the company sent Steve’s wages back home, something Steve strongly suspected would never happen. 

Steve swiped at the wetness on his face, though it did little to clear the haze. Rain slashed across the bow nearly horizontally, and below him, Steve heard the ship give a low, creaking moan, like she was in pain. Not a good sign, he knew. It wouldn’t be long now. 

He reached up and wrapped his hand around the round disc that hung from a leather cord around his neck. His sutler’s pin. A shield on one side, with UNION proudly engraved across the middle of it, his name, unit, and Brooklyn, N.Y., stamped on the other. He should have given it to Sam. He’d reached for it, meaning to press it into Sam’s hand along with the few casks of water and salted beef they had been able to grab before the stores flooded, but at the last moment, he hadn’t been able to part with it. 

He’d meant it for Peggy, once upon a time, when his uniform had been bright blue, all shiny and clean instead of the threadbare, bloodstained cerement that saw what was left of him home. When he left New York to come here to this God-forsaken place, Steve hadn’t been able to offer the coin to her, not when it was a promise they both knew he could not keep and she didn’t really want, not anymore. So he had looked at Sam and hesitated, waited too long, and now he wondered why he couldn’t, even now, even at the end, offer what he could of himself to Peggy, to let her know he’d been thinking of her, at the last. But, he hadn’t. He’d held on to it and watched as Sam swung a leg over the side of the ship into the dinghy with the rest of the crew, and then was gone, leaving Steve with a numb sense of relief that the moment where there was a choice had passed, and now, there was only purpose. 

Lightning spread bright, forked fingers across the sky, so close Steve could feel his skin prickle even under the rain. A loud booming sound crackled over the roar of the storm, and for a moment, he thought it was thunder rattling the ship, but the sound didn’t settle right for thunder and his eyes darted up. He spared a moment of horror as the ship’s main mast rent in two, the top half falling towards the deck only to be partially caught by the rigging so it hung there, swaying wildly as the ship pitched in the waves. Steve managed to duck just in time to avoid the splintered end taking his head off, but it smashed through the wheel, cleaving it almost perfectly in two. 

Another wave rolled the ship on its side. Steve reached for the railing and held on to it for all he was worth, though some part of him knew it didn’t matter. Not now. The die had been cast when he punched Captain Zemo, he supposed. Maybe before then. Maybe when he made the decision to get Zola and whatever information he held about Lee’s plans to Fury instead of going back to try to find a body. He should just let go, he thought, though he clung to the railing instead.

The waves lifted the ship, righted it for a moment, then seemed to drop it to the bottom of a swell. When Steve looked up, all he could see was a wall of dark sea topped with a ridge of white foam that rose up to some point far above where Peter used to sit the crow’s nest. A wave. Impossibly huge, coming right at the ship like the tip of a spear. 

Steve stared at the wave with a strange, preternatural calm. This was it, then. He reached up and curled his hand around the sutler coin, feeling the familiar cool weight of it against his palm. Wiping the rain and seaspray off of his face as best he could, he tightened his grip on the railing. The ship listed to the side again, shaking violently with the motion, as if she, too, knew what was coming and what her end would be. 

_ I was supposed to die a soldier _ , Steve had time to think, and then the wave curled in on itself, taking the ship with it, lifting it and tossing it as if it was nothing more than a child’s toy. Steve lost his grip on the railing and went sliding and tumbling down the near vertical deck, fingers scabbering uselessly for any kind of purchase. The sea opened up below him, a dark swirl of inky blackness, taking the wave and the ship with it, and he had time to think  _ breathe _ , but when he did, there was only cold, salty water snaking its way down his throat. 

A sharp, icy pain ripped across his calf, but his body couldn’t process anything except the need for air. He was hurtling around and around, unable to tell which way was up, with the storm having doused all the light from above that might have guided him. His hand found a piece of wood, a part of the ship maybe, and he reached out blindly for it, but couldn’t manage to catch hold before the sea swallowed it and sucked him down into the depths. His lungs raged, burning with the desperate need for air. His head pounded, an incessant need to open his mouth and just breathe, it didn’t even seem to matter that he knew in some distant part of his mind that it wouldn’t be air. He would have to, soon. There was no other choice. 

Another surge propelled him forward with such force that it was like being pulled behind a train. His body screamed silently for air, and the need to open his mouth and breathe was almost overwhelming. He had the crazy thought that he should just try it, and then his head hit something very hard, his vision swam in bright pinpoints behind his eyelids for a moment, and he opened them to something impossible, and then everything stopped hurting. 

Waking was something of a surprise. 

He sat up to his elbows with a start. Too fast. His head throbbed and everything went sideways. Steve blinked slowly and tried to get his eyes to focus. They stung. He squeezed them together, and then opened them again. The taste of seawater coated his tongue and throat, making him cough great, hacking bursts of fetid air until his ribs ached with the effort and he let his head loll back, finally able to swallow without feeling like he was drowning again. His head felt like it weighed more than a cannonball, and his right leg was throbbing, just below the knee, but he was alive. Somehow. Impossibly, amazingly, wondrously alive. 

He ran his tongue over his cracked lips. Held his hands up in front of his face, then let them fall back to the…sand. Yes. Sand. Digging his fingers in, he felt the familiar wet, grainy feel of it, and couldn’t help a moment of awe. Sand. Sand meant land. Land meant…well, he didn’t know what it meant, he realized with a slight frown.

He tried to sit up a bit more, and immediately regretted it, letting out a gasp of pain, followed by a groan as he brought the heel of his hand to his forehead and dug in as his head fell back against the cushion of the sand. Above him, it was dark. Wait. Not dark. Rock. An arch of rock rose above him, but to his left he could see a swath of brightness and blue sky cutting between the huge boulders. Though he couldn’t see it, he could hear the roar of the surf. Beyond that, though, he couldn’t pick out any other sounds. 

Gingerly this time, Steve tried sitting up again. Dizziness washed over him, and he shut his eyes, waiting for the world to right itself. Finally, the nauseous, rocking sensation passed, and his vision cleared a bit. He opened his eyes again and tried to take in his surroundings. It didn’t quite make sense at first, like his mind needed a moment to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

He was in some kind of hollowed-out cave amidst the rocks, sheltered from the sun. It was large, extending a ways behind him until the rocks piled up and formed a barrier to the beach, and the arched ceiling was surprisingly high. Huge rocks, taller even than he would be when he stood, were piled together almost as if by a child’s hand, though the whole thing had a feeling of incredible sturdiness about it. Narrow shafts of light peeked in from between rocks, and between the ones in front of him, he could make out the sea beyond. It spilled in between the crevices in a gentle loll, emptying into a large tidal pool, filled with gumdrop-shaped rocks that would soon enough be swallowed by the tide, if the algae on them was any indication. Dark, green seaweed clung to their sides and drifted in the water like long trails of hair. Otherwise, everything was still. 

His boots were gone, Steve noticed. He flexed his toes in the sand. Nothing broken, though his calf stung. He hadn’t been able to afford proper boots, so the company had loaned him a pair of what Steve could only assume had been the shoes of a giant, probably the only ones no one else wanted. They’ll take that out of my pay, Steve thought with a slightly hysterical edge to it. God, he was worrying about his boots and he was---where the hell was he?

Water lapped lightly at his bare feet where they sat in the sand, flowing in and out in a gentle rhythm around the base of the boulder. It was calm and oddly peaceful in here, away from the rough of the sea and heat of the sun, though by the water marks on the rocks, the tide would fill it before the end of the day. Still, not a bad place to find himself, all things considered. 

Also, Steve noted somewhat grimly, not a place that he could possibly have simply washed up into, that was certain. Someone must have brought him here, though for what reason, he couldn’t fathom. Why not to their home or the authorities or a doctor, if this place boasted one? To hide him? 

He looked around again, finding no answers, then frowned down at his leg and reached for it, wincing at the bright stab of pain that accompanied the motion. His calf was definitely injured. That much was clear, if not from the pain, then from the algae-covered poultice that was wrapped around it and tied with what appeared to be a part of the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve poked at it with one finger, then pulled back on the edge of the fabric, and prodded at the skin beneath. He could see dark red spots of what must have been blood on the makeshift bandage, but the gash itself appeared clean and free of the telltale signs of infection for the time being. 

Washed ashore and then brought here and patched up by some islander? It was possible, he supposed. To his knowledge, there weren’t any inhabited islands this far from Bridgetown, though it was certainly likely various uncharted settlements existed. Pirates were known to stash their bounties on unmapped islands, that was true enough, though pirates weren’t exactly known for rescuing sailors and patching them up. 

Steve shook his head and tried to think, then instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness hit him and he winced, gingerly reaching around to touch the back of his head. There was no blood, at least, though he could feel a raised knot on the back of his skull and an ache gripping his head like it was being squeezed from within. Still, not as terrible as he would have expected. Of course, he had  _ expected  _ never to see the light of day again, so there was that. 

The last thing he remembered was being pulled towards a watery grave too far out into the ocean to have somehow miraculously found his way to land on his own. He must have been rescued. That was the only explanation. Found floating on a piece of the ship, maybe, and picked up by another vessel. Fishermen, caught in the storm as the  _ Valkyrie _ had been, perhaps. But, if that was the case, why leave him here alone in this cave? 

Wait, was he alone? He looked around again, then tried to call out, but his voice was raspy and caught in his throat. He tried to clear it, then swallowed salty-tasting saliva a few times before trying again.

“Hello?” Steve tried, then found himself coughing on the last part of the word. “Hello? Is—Is anyone there?” He frowned, and glanced over to where the sun shown a path through the rocks. “Hello! I’m—I’m awake now, if you were—ah, waiting. Thank you, I’m—I’m okay. I think,” he stopped, looking around, half expecting someone to pop their head through the cutaway in the rocks, but no face appeared. No one called back. Nothing. “Please…please…Is someone out th—” 

A splash made him break off and whip his head around the other direction. It had come from behind one of the formations of rocks that sat near the middle of the tidal pool, though the waters were still when he looked. 

“H—hello?” Steve called out again, a bit tentatively, frowning with confusion. “Is someone there?” It was dark there at the middle of the pool where only slivers of sunlight managed to reach, casting bands of light on the top of the water, but leaving shadows over the rest. “Look, if someone is there, would you please come out? Did you—are you the one who found me? My leg, did you…was that you? Please, just—if you’re there, please come out, I—” Steve stopped, flattened his mouth and shook his head. This was crazy. Who would be skulking about in some tidal pool behind rocks while Steve shouted for them? Probably just a fish or stray wave or, more likely, Steve’s mind playing tricks on him. 

Still. Someone had helped him, he thought with a frown. Surely, they would return. Someone had… his mind drifting for a moment, flashing with, not an image, so much as a feeling. A sense of something. Being…safe. Held. Almost…enveloped. Floating. Drifting. In the water, it must have been. That made sense assuming he had been rescued, but it didn’t quite seem right, either. There had been something, though, he thought with a sort of abrupt flash of almost-realization. 

He looked down at his wrist and slowly pushed the sleeve of his shirt up, though he couldn’t say exactly what prompted him to look. He stared in surprise at the ring of dark blue bruises that dotted his skin in a near-perfect circle around his wrist and up his forearm, all the way to his shoulder, he noticed, as he shoved his sleeve further up and pulled down the collar of his shirt. Like something had coiled around his arm and held on hard enough to leave a mark. A rope, maybe, Steve thought. Perhaps someone had used a rope to hold on to him. There was something not quite right about the thought, and as much as he told himself it made sense, the marks on his skin resembled something that was on the edge of his mind that he couldn’t quite name, but it wasn’t a rope. Steve frowned and rolled his shirt-sleeve down, looked around once more and called out a hello again, though the only answer he received was the slow undulation of the waves lapping against the rocks. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. There wasn’t anything for it. He was going to have to get up, drag himself out of here somehow and find whoever it was who had helped him. Maybe they were coming back, maybe they weren’t, but he needed food and water. Water more than anything. His throat was painfully parched. 

Steve looked over at the bright, jagged spot between the rocks. It suddenly seemed so far away, he thought, feeling his shoulders sag. He blinked at the brightness, his leg throbbing, as if it was protesting the very thought of getting up. An aching exhaustion seemed to seep into his bones, weighing him down. He was so tired. The way out was endless steps, and then what? He had no idea, and a part of him feared what he would find out. This whole situation had a strangeness about it that settled cold in his gut. A sense of wrongness wound up his spine, but it was just another weight, pulling him down, one more thing to handle on top of everything else. He put his head in his hands and let his chin drop to his chest. 

A thread of panic hit him then, and both hands came up to grasp and pat at his chest, but it was gone. His medallion. Of course it was. Probably at the bottom of the sea with the rest of the ship, he thought with a grimace. Not that it mattered, not really. It was probably better this way. The look of acceptance and almost relief Peggy had given him when he told her he was leaving and she was free of her promise to wait floated through his mind. No. No, he didn’t much need the coin now, he supposed. 

He lay back down on the cool sand and stared at the jagged ceiling of the cave. His breath came out in a long, ragged rush. His eyes stung. He told himself it was the salt, but, well…the coin had been with him through the whole War, and losing it now—he cut the thought off and shook his head, trying to clear it. His eyes stung. He swiped at them and told himself it was the sting of saltwater and grit. 

It didn’t matter. It was just a thing. The War was over. He didn’t need it anymore. He wasn’t even a soldier, not anymore. He wasn’t anything now. He didn’t need— _ it was just a piece of metal, dammit _ , he shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut until they burned. It wasn’t who he was, not now, not here. Wasn’t that why he came here? To get away from being Captain Steve Rogers? It was probably a good thing it was lost. He didn’t  _ need _ it. Another dry sob burst out of him, and he swiped a hand angrily over his eyes. He was being stupid, he knew. It was just a thing. Worth nothing to anyone save him. 

It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t need it.

It didn’t mean  _ anything _ , he told himself harshly. 

Steve forced his eyes open again, staring up at the rocky ceiling where the boulders were propped up against each other like a child’s blocks, somehow impossibly balanced. Small cracks of light shone through, making Steve blink. He needed to focus on what did matter. Out there, there was sun and daylight and people. People who had helped him. He didn’t need a damn piece of jewelry, no matter what sentimentality it held. What he _ did _ need was to figure out where he was, who helped him and how to get home. 

He would get up and crawl out of here if he had to, though he thought his leg might actually be able to bear some weight. He had a plan. He would get up and go and find his rescuers. Right after he just…closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. A short rest. His fingers flexed around the place the coin should have been one more time, and, distantly, his mind registered the movement of something in the water, but it seemed very far away, and he was so tired, still, and this was just for a moment. Just a short rest, he repeated to himself.

When he woke this time, it was noticeably darker in the cave. The sun was still burning through the gaps in the rocks, but it was a golden glow this time, not the white blind brightness of earlier, and the cave was shadowed with haze. He ran a hand over his eyes, and looked up. Then frowned. 

The ceiling of the cave was different. 

Steve sat up in a jolt, causing a stinging, twisting burst of pain to spike through his head, but he couldn’t help it. The ceiling was, of course, not actually different. The ceiling had probably not been different for hundreds of years, if not longer. He was different. Or, more accurately, he was in a different place. The water had risen as the tide came in and filled the pool, that much was readily apparent, and there was now a trough through the sand from where had been laying earlier to where he was now. 

Someone had moved him. Someone had moved him while he slept. Someone had moved him while he slept and…placed a large silver bowl filled with sparkling water in it by his head. Even stranger, next to the bowl sat a bright, green palm frond, on which was laid a dark amber fruit Steve recognized as naseberry and next to that, a pile of burgundy seagrapes and a bright yellow carambola. By the fruit sat a bevy of fresh oysters, already cracked open, and two small, chalky-blue birds’ eggs the size of large grapes. 

Steve looked around, but again, no one appeared. His stomach cramped insistently with a pang of hunger, but it was the bowl of water he reached for first. He tipped it to his cracked lips and drank it down so fast he started coughing and choking and had to force himself to slow down. When he’d finally had his fill, he wiped a hand over his mouth and reached for the fruit, finishing it off in quick succession. The oysters were next, salty enough to make him thirsty again, and then the eggs, which he cracked open and let drop down his throat in one swallow. He coughed again, then drew in a deep breath. His thirst and hunger finally sated, the strangeness of it all settled over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. 

Someone had come in while he slept and moved him to keep him out of the creeping tide, then brought him food and water, even knowing enough to let the water sit in silver to cleanse it. The turn of events was odd enough in and of itself, but in light of his rescue, the care to his wound, and his current state, it seemed even more bizarre. It had to have been someone strong enough to move him, but careful enough not to wake him. Even if he had still been somewhere past mere exhaustion from his ordeal, he was a light enough sleeper that it surprised him. 

Was someone hiding him here, keeping his presence a secret? If so, why? Steve had heard the other sailors talk about natives who supposedly cooked and ate their enemies, but sailors, particularly those who were enjoying the watered-down wine that most ships provided, were full of all manner of tales. Still, Steve found himself assessing his surroundings with a keener eye than he had earlier. Pirates, perhaps, but that relied on some notion of a friendly pirate risking his or her neck to save him, and that seemed more unlikely than just about any other story he could tell himself. 

“Don’t suppose anyone wants to tell me what’s going on?” Steve questioned lightly to the empty cave, his voice reverberating a bit off the rocks. “Didn’t think so,” he said to the silence. 

With a sigh, Steve got his legs under him and started to stand, or tried to. The world swayed before his eyes, and a sharp pain seemed to bang against the inside of his forehead with the movement. He steadied himself and waited for it to pass enough to push forward, but as soon as he put weight on his injured leg, it gave out from under him and he hit the sand again with a startled gasp of pain. 

“Damn it!” Steve shouted, pounding a frustrated fist into the sand. 

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, breathing through his teeth while the pain receded. With a grim determination this time, he started to push himself off the ground again, wincing at the effort, and then he heard a splash, the same as earlier, though louder this time. He stopped mid-motion and lifted his head to peer out towards the tidal pool and the stand of rocks near the deeper part at the center. He frowned. There had definitely been a splash. Something bigger than a mere reef fish, that was certain. 

“Hello? Hello? Is someone there?” Steve called out, brows drawing together. “I’m—I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I’m—are you the one—did you help me? Bring the—the food and water? Or, do you know who did? I—I swear, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I just want…I want to thank you…you saved my life. Please. Please, if you’re there, please come out.. Please.”

Steve waited, staring at the rocks, though it was too dark now to see much. There was something, though, he thought, squinting harder. A shadow a bit deeper than the rest of the shadows hugging the side of the larger of the rocks. A slight movement rippling the water in between waves. 

Steve opened his mouth to call out again, then stopped, mind going blessedly blank for a long moment while he tried to process what his eyes were seeing. The shadow was moving closer, growing larger as it made its way to the shallower water, spreading out in long, thick waving shadows that dipped in and out of the water as it moved. It was impossible. His mind playing tricks on him. The shadows. He had hit his head, hadn’t he? Perhaps he still slept. A hundred possibilities vied in his mind, but none could quite explain what he was seeing. 

It was a man. No. Not a man, Steve’s mind corrected almost instantly. Definitely not a man. The creature gliding smoothly through the water was no man, though it had the torso, arms and face of a man, dark haired, strong, with shapely muscles under skin tanned by the sun. As the thing moved close enough to touch the shore, Steve could see a finely-trimmed beard and goatee and wide, dark eyes that were slightly downcast with what Steve read as hesitancy. That alone would have been remarkable enough, a man rising out of the ocean as if being born, but the rest of him was something beyond astonishing, for the man’s waist tapered into a set of long, thick tentacles of dark red, speckled with dots of golden yellow, that twisted and undulated as he moved. 

Steve’s mouth fell open in shock. He could hear his mind telling him to move, run, anything, could feel his body coiling into the beginnings of motion, but he sat there, rooted to the spot, staring in amazed horror at the creature emerging from the pool. It hovered there at the water’s edge, looking down at him, then made some kind of high-pitched trilling noise that made Steve jump and knocked him out of his reverie. He scabbered back across the sand, heedless of the pain in his leg, until he collided with a rock that jutted up from the sand and nearly cracked his head on it before he registered that the thing was holding his hands out in front of him, palms out, making what Steve would have called a placating motion and more sounds, though these were slightly more distressed. 

“Stay back!” Steve ordered with a tone he hadn’t heard from himself since the battlefield. He glanced around almost blindly, searching for a weapon, but the stones here were far too heavy to be of use, and there was nothing else within reach between him and the creature. The thing pulled up short at his barked order and dropped its hands to its sides. It recoiled its tentacles, looking down at Steve with a stricken expression. 

“Stay back,” Steve said again, firmly, but more calmly this time. He blinked at the thing, shook his head and grimaced at the surge of pain from the motion, then wiped a hand over his face, but the thing was still there, and if this was a fever dream, Steve’s efforts to wake himself didn’t seem to be working. 

“I—oh, God—what— _ what are you _ ?” Steve asked, horrorstruck. 

The creature lifted dark, almost sad, eyes to him, then carefully, hesitantly, stretched out a tentacle in front of it. 

Then dropped Steve’s medallion in the sand in front of him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Steve blinked down at the coin, and for a heartbeat, wanted to reach out and make a grab for it, but for once in his miserable excuse for a life, self-preservation won out. Maybe it was the utter impossibility of what his eyes were seeing, or the horrible sensation snaking up his spine that none of this was real, and maybe he wasn’t real, maybe he was floating on the bottom of the ocean, food for the fish, or worse. 

_ Worse _ . 

He would wake up and be back on the battlefield, screams of men and horses dying around him, the smell—God, the  _ smell _ —blood and puke and shit all mixed in with dirt and smoke so that even months later, sitting in Peggy’s living room in Manhattan, he couldn’t stand the way the fireplace smelled after she doused the fire or the knowing, sympathetic way she looked at him when he made some excuse to leave. They don’t tell you how badly dying smells, Steve thought, somewhat crazily, his mind reeling and pitching. Like a ship in a storm, he thought, his vision slanting, pinpricks of darkness picking at the edges as he stared, wide-eyed, at the creature in front of him. 

Somehow, he got his feet under him. Clawing his way across the sand, he backed further away, and darted for the sliver of sunlight between the huge boulders. The creature made some kind of high-pitched, hissing scream behind him, and Steve had the odd sense that it was…distressed. Upset. That wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t pause to think long on it, just ran as a loud splash echoed behind him, tripping and stumbling in the wet sand until his hands reached the rocks, and yes, there! A way out. Small, but he was already shimmying his feet through it, landing in calf-deep water on the other side, his foot sliding along an algae-covered rock until it caught a sharp edge of something, lighting a bright path of pain up his already injured leg. He let out a sharp gasp, face twisting as surprise as whitehot agony lanced through him. 

Another splash. Smaller this time, but closer, followed by a humming-grunting noise that Steve would have almost called frustration if he’d had to put a feeling to the strange, unfamiliar sound. Steve glanced behind him and saw nothing except darkness and waves lightly lapping at his heels from inside the cave, then ducked his head through the small chasm and gingerly pulled his injured leg through, wavering a bit as he tried to find purchase among the slippery rocks that dotted the shoreline. 

And that’s what it was. A shoreline. He could see it clearly now, even in the fading light of dusk. To one side, the wide, dark expanse of sea. To the other, sand that crested into a copse of palm trees and brush, and beyond that, another shelf of rocks, not quite as big as the one behind him, sitting almost haphazardly along the far shoreline several hundred yards away. 

He could see across the island. The entire island, and he could stand here and stare from one end to the other, and that was…it. That was all there was. Barely an island so much as a glorified sandbar. He drew himself up, momentarily dumbfounded. 

There was nothing here. 

No village. No structures. No ships. No tail of smoke rising from a fire. No voices reaching his ears. Nothing. No one. 

He was alone. That…couldn’t be right, though.  _ Someone _ had tended to his leg and brought him food and water. There had to be someone else here, though he saw no sign of anyone as he scanned the island. Except for whatever it was in that cave, Steve reminded himself, though as he picked his way among the rocks to where they opened up to the sandy shore, the whole thing took on an absurd tilt in his head. 

He couldn’t have seen what his mind thought he saw. He had a head injury, and he had just woken from a fitful sleep with the vestiges of a dream still clinging to his mind. On the ship, the other sailors spun all kinds of yarns about the mysteries of the sea. Sailors were, by nature, a superstitious lot whose stories of mermaids and monsters from the deep were far more likely to be the result of too much rum and sun, too little food, and long voyages with nothing but the sea to look upon. His mind must have been playing tricks on him, delving up some long-forgotten, rum-fueled tale one of the old seafarers used to scare new recruits, about a creature that was half-man, half…something else. That had to be it. He was exhausted, traumatized, injured, perhaps feverish, surely that explained whatever it was he had seen in the cave. 

Looking back over his shoulder and into the darkness of the cave, Steve felt a slight shiver run down his spine, settling cold in his stomach. He saw nothing but shadow behind him. Nothing moved, except white-capped waves following him to the shore. He limped and fell into a heap on dry sand, hands clawing into it for a moment before he tossed a lump of it back towards the slash of darkness between the rocks where he had made his escape from whatever it was his mind had conjured to torment him. No monster appeared. Outside and in the waning sun, he felt foolish, letting his mind get the better of him like that. It had seemed so real, though...

Steve frowned and looked down at his leg again. 

Someone had helped him. Someone had brought him food and water. A figment of his imagination certainly hadn’t done that. There  _ had  _ to be someone here. Some poor soul who Steve had mistaken for a beast. Because if there wasn’t, the likely alternatives were that he was going mad or far more injured than he realized, neither of which were particularly appealing prospects. 

“Hello!” Steve called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Is anyone here? Please! If you can hear me, please answer me…just…please. Please…” he trailed off, letting his hands fall limply back to the sand at his sides. “Please answer me.” 

He let his eyes drift shut for a moment, swallowing thickly. He was alone or going crazy or perhaps both. Had he even eaten anything, truly? Or had he imagined that, too? Food and water appearing as if by magic in the middle of a deserted island sounded far more like a fever-dream than anything real, and yet his belly felt full and his throat was no longer dry with seawater. 

He knew enough about hunger not to trust the feeling, though. After a while, after you had chewed bark and gnawed at raw acorns just to feel something in your stomach, even if it did nothing to help, there was some cliff that your mind went over and told you that you weren’t hungry anymore. He had seen it happen too many times. Men who wore their skin like it was draped over their bones turning their heads away from food, claiming they weren’t hungry, when they were just too far gone with it to know. Had those men, too, had a feast laid before them before the pain of hunger left them?

Steve dug the heel of his hand into his forehead and tried to call out again, but it came out like a dry, choking sob. He needed to get up, find shelter, food, and most importantly, water, if there was any to be had on this tiny rock of an island. His leg throbbed, though, and there was a shallow cut on his foot where he had scraped it in his panicked escape from the cave.  _ You’re falling apart, Rogers _ , he thought to himself with a grim sigh. He wasn’t sure if he meant his body or his mind, but he knew he wasn’t going to find any answers sitting here. Wherever here was. Finally, he lifted his head and looked over one shoulder, then the other. The island was still, except for the sway of the fronds as the wind swept across it. Still and empty. 

“Please,” Steve managed, tipping his head back and closing his eyes again. “Please, if there is anyone here, please answer me. Just answer me. Please.” He wasn’t sure who he was asking, and the wind took his words and carried them out to sea as soon as they left his mouth. The only answer was the low crash of the waves over the rocks. He was alone. Alone, and, apparently, losing his mind or at least hallucinating. 

A splash sounded in front of him, making his eyes pop open and his head jerk down to peer at the water in front of him. There was nothing there except the same sea that had been there a moment ago, and yet, he was sure he had heard something. It hadn’t been too loud, but close, and different from the constant ebb and flow of the waves. Another splash to his right, this one a little louder, though Steve had the sense it was further away, and the next thing he knew, something solid and hard hit his knee, making him start, and plopped into the soft sand next to him. He reached out and plucked the thing out of the sand, lifting it up on his palm and studying it with a confused fascination, though he had known what it was almost immediately. 

His sutler coin sat in his hand, the sand-covered chain dripping down between his fingers. 

Pushing himself up, Steve stumbled towards the water, making it knee deep before he stopped. Nothing greeted him except a few white-capped waves. He looked down at the coin still dangling from his hand, then slipped the chain over his head and under what remained of his shirt, feeling the familiar cool weight of the metal on his chest.

“I know you’re there,” Steve yelled. Nothing replied. Nothing moved, save for the water. “Please, I just…” he broke off, shook his head and let his chin drop to his chest. He sucked in a shaky breath, then peeled his eyes up to the horizon. “Either there’s some…one there, or I’m crazy, and I guess if you are there, maybe I might owe you my life, so…in case I’m not losing my mind, thanks,” he finished, patting a hand over where the coin pressed against his skin. 

He couldn’t have seen what he thought he saw in that grotto. A trick of the light. Some long-forgotten tale from the depths of his mind that he’d conjured, in a moment of weakness, to explain how he had survived. He couldn’t have truly seen…whatever it was he thought he’d seen. A man with the body of an octopus. His rational mind rebelled at the thought, and yet--yet he had seen something. The coin around his neck attested to that. But, it couldn’t be--it couldn’t be what he thought he had seen. It just  _ couldn’t _ be. Things like that, they didn’t exist. It was the dragon on the edge of a map of the world. Folly. Fear. Nothing real, certainly. 

This was the modern world, and surely if something such as that had existed, it would have been found by now, maybe by one of those explorers whose exploits and daring Steve loved to read about in the serials, like Livingstone and Von Humbolt or the adventures of people like Justin Hammer, who had that big party down in the city to celebrate his return from the Arctic. Steve had seen a picture in the paper of the entrance to the event with a door flanked by two giant, stuffed white bears that greeted guests with silent roars. Or Steve’s favorite, the billionaire explorer Tony Stark and his intrepid assistant, Miss Potts. Their adventures often filled the pages of Marvels Magazine, though the last tattered copy that had passed through Steve’s hands sometime right before Gettysburg had been left over from before the war. 

Stark would have probably figured out a way to—to…convert palm fronds into a flying machine or something equally amazing, Steve thought with a rueful sigh. Of course, he wasn’t Tony Stark, and this wasn’t one of Stark’s Amazing Adventures, though, Steve told himself. This was real life and whatever that…thing…had been, it couldn’t have been what Steve thought it was. Stark had been lost at sea crossing from Europe with what the rumors said was going to be a weapon to stop the war before it started. The papers had proclaimed it a national tragedy, Steve remembered, not that any of that mattered now. 

Stark would almost certainly have some kind of explanation for what Steve’s mind kept telling him he was seeing. Ingestion of some tropical poison, like the one Stark had been exposed to down in the Amazon when he was searching for the City of Gold, or a heretofore unknown species, like when Stark went on the hunt for the so-called land crocodile of Komodo and came back with two of them for the London Zoo. The point was, there had to be some kind of rational explanation, he just wasn’t in a frame of mind to think of one. 

But, the food…the coin…his leg…

Steve grimaced. Someone was here with him, of that much he was certain, though who they were and what they wanted remained to be seen. They didn’t seem to want to harm him, and he supposed, if they didn’t want to be found for some unfathomable reason, he had little choice but to accept it. At least for the time being. 

He trudged out of the water again and sat down on the sand, watching the waves, still searching for any sign that there really was someone (or something, he amended to himself) out there in the surf. He knew he should walk the island, see what he could find in the way of shelter, food, and most importantly, water. But, his foot throbbed where he’d sliced it on the rocks during his dash out of the cave and his leg still ached from whatever injury he’d sustained in the wreck, so he remained as he was. Instead, he kept his eyes on the water where its dark canopy churned across the rocks, watching as the sun slowly dipped down, seemingly extinguished by the sea. He wasn’t sure what he was watching for, or, probably more honestly, he didn’t want to admit what he kept half-expecting, half-dreading to see, but nothing appeared. No strange splashes broke the surface of the water. No odd sounds accompanied them. No food or drink magically appeared.

And clearly, no tentacled creature crawled out of the sea, Steve thought with a frustrated sigh. As the evening dragged on into night and the sun finally dipped down below the horizon, the thought of what he was waiting to see seemed more and more a fool’s errand. The product of whatever had used his head for a battering ram, Steve thought. That, a lack of water, and…he stopped and reached up to grip the coin that now sat under his shirt. He’d wasted many hours sitting here, hoping for a glimpse of something that was probably impossible when he should have been getting something done. Like finding shelter for the night. 

He’d worked injured before, after all, and his leg, while painful, was far less serious than a bullet that thought it had found a home. Whatever it was he’d seen, whatever caretaker was somehow lurking about in the shadows and waves, none of it changed the fact that Steve needed to figure out how to survive until he could find a way back home or entice a rescue. Which, he had to admit, seemed to be something of a tall order. 

It wasn’t like anyone was likely to be looking for him. His employer certainly wouldn’t be mobilizing the Stark Trading Company fleet for Steven G. Rogers, newly-minted sailor who spent the better part of his first voyage bent over the side of the ship puking his guts out and was last seen at the helm of a doomed ship. That was if the others even made it out of the storm. 

Flattening himself out on the sand, Steve stared up at the deepening sky, letting himself be lulled by the sound of the waves. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would forage for food, find water, if he could, or set up some kind of rain catching system and pray that the storm that brought him here wasn’t the last of its kind. Tomorrow, he would see what the island truly held, build a signal fire if he could find kindling, do all the things he knew he should be doing. No more hunting for creatures that couldn’t exist. Tomorrow, Steve thought, clutching at the coin around his neck as he drifted off again. 

When he woke again, he woke slowly, disoriented for a moment as he grasped for the sway of his hammock and came away with sand. The gentle rush of the sea filled his ears, and he blinked into the darkness. Gone was the hazy greyness of earlier. It was full night now, dark in a deep, primal way with only the shine of the moon and stars to offer any light. Disconcerting, Steve thought, sitting up and wondering if that was why he woke, this pitch blackness that had descended while he slept. 

He rubbed his hands over the front of his shirt to get the sand off, then glanced towards the sea again, where silvery beams of moonlight rippled with the tide. Steve frowned and tilted his head to the side. There was a shape there, just in front of the rocks by the cave’s entrance, a different kind of darkness than the rest of it, though how he knew that, he couldn’t say. The darkness rippled and moved in a strange, swirling motion. It was large, whatever it was. Tall for a man, but definitely not a man. 

“Are you there?” Steve asked, voice cracking to almost a whisper even as the wind caught his words. “You are, aren’t you? You’re real. My God. You’re really real,” he breathed out in a low hiss of shock, raking a hand through his hair and looking up at the sky. 

Maybe it was easier now, in a darkness this deep, to accept that he might actually have seen something out of a story or a legend, something beyond the knowledge of men. The depths of the sea were as much a mystery now as when sailors first set course for the horizon, after all. Those tales the crews swapped, they had to come from somewhere, right? The extraordinary was easier to believe alone and in the dark, Steve thought, swallowing hard. Like the line between what was certain and what was possible became thinner.

“You saved me, didn’t you?” Steve said into the night. “You saved me.”

He knew it was true as soon as he said it. Impossible. Yet true. Whatever it was, the creature had saved his life. He’d heard stories about the wild porpoises who frolicked in the warm waters down here sometimes helping drowning sailors to shore. Old Smitty back at the bar on Tortuga swore he’d ridden a giant turtle to land one time when he fell overboard after a night of too much drinking. Stories, tales, legends, all unlikely, but perhaps there was a grain of truth at the bottom of all of them, Steve supposed, eyeing the creature thoughtfully while it watched him with a steady gaze. 

“That’s how I got the bruises on my arm,” Steve surmised. “It wasn’t a rope from the ship, was it? It was you. You pulled me from the wreckage and brought me here. Why?” he asked. He didn’t really expect an answer and got none, but for a moment, the shape moved, a sort of slithering movement of dark tendrils before it settled again. “Whatever your reason, I owe you my life,” Steve continued. He didn’t quite know why he was talking so much, but it felt good to talk to someone. Something. And he didn’t think the creature went to all this trouble to save him only to try to--to eat him or something. At least, he hoped not. 

“Thank you. I don’t know why you did it, but thank you. Did you give me the food and water, too? And fix my leg? Or is there someone else here? Do you have…people? Others? Are there more of you?” Steve asked haltingly. No reply. “Just you? Must be lonely, if it’s just you. Well, not so much just you anymore, huh? I’m guessing by the looks of things, I’m pretty well stuck here, too. Unless you have a ship stowed somewhere I could borrow?”

A splash, then another, louder and closer. Steve watched as the darkness shifted and moved, undulating as if the rocks themselves were building a form. Steve felt his back stiffen, but he kept himself still. He wasn’t sure he could outrun whatever it was even if he wanted to, not on his hurt leg and with his foot throbbing and crusted over, but more than fear of whatever it was on this island with him was a desperate need to know what he had truly seen. 

The shape stopped moving, hovering just inside the shadow of the boulders that formed the small cave. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve said after a moment. He’d said that earlier, too, but he thought he meant it more now. He held his breath, then slowly let it out. “You don’t have to be afraid. I promise. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Slowly, the shadowy form in front of him rippled and billowed, almost hesitant, shifting itself away from the rocks until first a single, thick appendage darted through the shaft of moonlight that traced a path over the water, and then another, and another, until a roiling skirt of them appeared, heaving over the rocks with a loud splash while Steve gaped, slack-jawed. 

Steve could only stare at the creature, for that was clearly what it was. No trick of the light. No head injury. This was real, or as real as anything that mattered on this island, Steve supposed. Even in the sparse moonlight, Steve could see the same shape he’d seen earlier. Six tentacles, dark red and speckled with a lighter color, lined on their underside with round, suctioning discs that peeled themselves off the rocks, stretching the skin to translucent for a moment as they did. Above the spiraling mass of tentacles, a man’s torso, not so different from Steve’s own, two arms that ended in hands and a surprisingly human face. 

The creature was large, nearly reaching Steve’s own height now that it was no longer crouching behind the rocks. Powerful and beautiful, Steve realized in a surprised flash of a thought. Like something out of a book or a dream, though it wasn’t that, Steve knew. It was real. All too real, as impossible as Steve would have said such a thing was just a day ago. 

It had pushed itself almost upright and moved slowly forward until it was just a short distance in front of Steve, right at the water’s edge. It was watching Steve with startlingly human brown eyes. Steve opened and closed his mouth, maybe to call out, maybe to entreat it to stop, come no closer, but the creature had already slowed, holding itself just at the water’s edge near where Steve had cut his foot however many hours ago it had been now. 

“What—what are--wait,” Steve started, then pursed his mouth closed, frowning. as the thing scuttled backwards again with surprising speed. Steve reached up and wrapped his hand around where his medallion hung from his neck. Whatever the thing was, it meant him no harm, that much seemed clear. And Steve owed it a debt, not that it could understand. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorry. Sorry, I--I’m just not, ah, not used to--to something like you. But, well, thank you. For saving me out there. The--the food and my leg. Thank you. And for giving this back,” he added almost as an afterthought, holding the sutler’s coin up. “It kind of means something, I guess. Maybe it’s stupid, but…doesn’t feel right without it. So, thanks.”

The creature lifted its head a little, face still captured by shadows, though Steve could see dark hair and what even appeared to be a beard along the creature’s jaw. He remembered that from the glimpse he’d gotten earlier, the one he had discounted as impossible, when he’d had the impression of a finely-trimmed beard and goatee in a strange style that made Steve think a bit of Custer, though he’d only see the man once. It had a necklace of a blue stone in the shape of a somewhat indistinct shell, which Steve had failed to notice earlier, though he thought his lack of attention to detail was forgivable, what with panicking over being eaten. The thing made some kind of noise, that high, trilling-hum sound, but this one was softer, almost like a—well, a purr, Steve thought. 

“Hello,” Steve said, though it sounded ridiculous as soon as it was out of his mouth. What was he doing? He should, by all rights, be running, but if the thing had wanted to harm him, he supposed it already had ample opportunity, and so far, it had only seemed to want to help, strange as that was to Steve. If it truly was just the two of them here, as it appeared, and if the creature was friendly, as it seemed to be, and miraculously able to to find food and water, as it also seemed to be, then maybe it could help him find a way off this rock. Though, how to communicate that rather complicated thought, he had no idea. 

“I’m…I’m Steve. Steve Rogers,” Steve told the creature. He supposed it was only polite. He had a quick fit of amusement at the idea of what Sarah Rogers would say about her son’s manners in this situation, but soldiered on, as it were. “Formerly, Captain Steve Rogers of the Union Army. Irish Brigade, out of New York. Lately, midshipman with the Stark Trading Company.”

The creature hummed, tossed its hands in the air with a hint of what Steve would have called frustration on a person, tapped its chest emphatically, then made a high-pitched sound that rose and fell and ended in a long wailing note. Steve wondered if that was its name, and as crazy as the idea sounded, as soon as he thought it, he was almost sure it was true.

“Are you...is that your language?” Was that--was that  _ your name _ ?” Steve asked in a stupefied voice. The creature made that same chuffing sound, lower this time, and nodded. “Wow. Wow, that’s--wow. Did you just--you introduced yourself? Holy sh--shinola,” Steve managed, swiping a hand over his mouth. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that the thing would have some type of language or a name for itself, though he supposed that wasn’t any stranger than anything else he’d been through in the past day or so. Some of the other sailors swore there were whales on the other side of the world who sang to each other. Donovan claimed they had different songs for when a new calf was born and songs they sang when they followed one of the old ones on her last swim. Steve found the whole idea of it fantastic and wonderful, though he thought Donovan was more likely having a go at him, what with Steve being new to the sea and all. Still, the creature was clearly intelligent. That much was obvious. Intelligent and resourceful enough to help Steve, so why not have its own language? It seemed on this island, the incredible wasn’t just possible, but common. 

“Don’t think I can quite manage that, sorry,” Steve replied with a frown. The creature tilted its head at him, regarding him with what Steve took for a curious look. 

“You’re sure a clever one, aren’t you?” Steve mused, tilting his head to the side to mimic the creature. 

The creature stared at him for a moment, then tilted its head to the other side. Steve did the same, some strange version of the mirroring game he and Bucky used to play as kids. He grinned. The thing smiled back, wide and happy, or at least, Steve thought it looked happy. Didn’t bared teeth mean aggression in animals? Still, Steve’s mind registered happy, and the more the thing smiled, the more Steve was sure that his impression was correct. After all, except for the gills on the sides of its neck, it wasn’t all that different from a man’s smile, not that many men had smiled at Steve quite like that. 

He’d been thinking of the creature as more animal than man, some abomination of the deep like that giant squid the barkeep back on Tortola swore had drifted to shore with the tide one day when he was a boy, something the whole island had come to witness and take pieces of the desiccated mass. Anyone who ate of it became violently ill, the barkeeper remembered, and pointed to a jar with what he claimed was one of the beast’s appendages floating inside. A drop of that to your whiskey, boy, and you’ll know what wishing you were dead really means, he had told Steve, then laughed a rough, terrible laugh and left Steve to nursing his drink and whatever it was that plagued him enough to come to that rotten hellhole of a place. Steve had been thinking of the creature more like that, some undiscovered species that prowled the depths, but its mannerisms were unmistakably human-like, which suggested perhaps it spent at least some of its time around people. And if that were the case, maybe there was hope for a rescue after all. 

The creature chattered at him again, all animated now. It was astonishingly expressive. Its tentacles swirled and coiled at the water’s edge. It raked its hands through its hair, then dropped them to its waist in a such a familiarly human gesture, Steve was momentarily taken aback. Whatever the thing was, it was clearly more intelligent than any animal Steve had encountered, of that much he was almost certain. Was it so outside the realm of possible that creatures of whatever kind this was might have their own language, as the porpoises and whales did? It was certainly possible, Steve had to admit. And perhaps he could figure out some rudimentary method of communicating with it. The sailors told tales of people who talked with the porpoises in high-pitched whistles and clicks that resembled no language Steve knew, so why not a language for this creature as well? 

“Alright, alright, whoa there,” Steve said, holding up a hand and blinking up at the creature in surprise when it ceased its chattering, as if it understood him. He blinked at it. “Do you…do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked. 

The creature nodded once, slowly.

“You do?” Steve asked. “Really? You do?”

The creature nodded again, firmer this time. 

“Oh—okay then. Wow. You truly understand me?” Steve repeated, stunned into a momentary silence. The thing pursed its mouth into a thin line and nodded again, this time punctuating the gesture with an actual roll of its eyes, like Steve was being unfortunately slow about the whole thing. Okay, well, that was...unexpected. To say the very least. “You understand me. Okay, wow. That--that’s…amazing. Amazing. I didn’t think--How did you learn to—are there people here? Nearby? Is there another island, somewhere with people? Did someone there teach you, or maybe you just listened in or—”

The thing was shaking his head and making a sort of clucking sound, almost sadly, Steve thought, blinking in wonder at the beast in front of him. It pointed at Steve, pointed towards the sea, then separated its hands wide. 

“Not nearby. Long way away, huh?” Steve said with a sigh. It nodded. Steve shook his head, still reeling from the realization that the creature understood him. “Well. That just figures, doesn’t it. My luck. Guess maybe you can swim it, but I sure can’t.” The creature slowly shook its head and looked away with a tight grimace, then back at Steve with what Steve would swear was an apology on its features.

Steve turned away and blinked against the wind, staring off at the nothingness that awaited in the sea for a long moment. He was stuck here until he could manage to get himself rescued or find some way back to civilization, and this thing, whatever it was, might be his best hope of surviving. 

“Well, you know my name, and I can’t say yours, so if it’s going to be you and me until I figure out how to get off this rock or manage to get picked up by a passing ship, I guess I have to come up with some kind of name for you,” Steve said, feeling his shoulders square with a grim resolution. “How about…let’s see…Jules? I just read Voyage in a Balloon back on—no, huh?” Steve stopped with a small puff of laughter, wincing a bit in chagrin at the face the creature pulled at the suggestion. “Okay. Not a Verne fan. Duly noted,” Steve said with a faux-serious nod. 

The creature sighed heavily. Of course, the creature couldn’t possibly know who Jules Verne was, that was ridiculous, but it clearly had ideas about what to be called, that much was—astoundingly—obvious. For all its lack of speaking ability, it managed to communicate fairly clearly, and it was certainly smart. Smarter than Steve would have ever imagined. 

“Um…how about Pym? Not loving Poe, either, huh? Well, it wasn’t his best, I’ll grant you. Athos? Hey, I went with the smart musketeer, I thought you’d appreciate that! Could’ve said Porthos,” Steve laughed as the creature shuddered and shook its head. It crossed its arms across its chest and, to Steve’s astonished amusement, did the same with two of its tentacles. 

“You’re not making this easy, you know,” Steve pointed out, tilting his head to the side as he regarded the creature with a newfound curiosity. It was clearly far more intelligent than Steve had assumed. The creature started tapping one of its tentacles in the dirt in what Steve had to presume was a universal sign of impatience. “Okay, okay. Could go with something like Poseidon, if you like the classics? No, huh. Yeah, that’s a bit much, I’ll give you that.” 

The creature made another noise, sort of a huffing grunt this time that Steve took for frustrated annoyance. Steve grinned, then started laughing, a loud, booming sound that split the quiet night and made the creature pull back, hissing a little at the noise. 

“Sorry. Sorry, it’s just…it hit me that I’m—I’m sitting here in the middle of nowhere, stranded on an island, trying to come up with a name for…for this—for whatever you are—something that shouldn’t exist, something that should be impossible, and you’re…you’re  _ arguing _ with me about my name choices,” Steve said, smiling wildly and letting the moment of incredulity overwhelm him. “This is crazy. This whole thing…if I ever do get off this island, no one is ever going to believe me. This will be like one of those stories you read about in the journals, like Hodgsons and whatever it was he saw in Nepal that he had to say was an orangutan or else get drummed out of the Asiatic Society. People would think I was crazy if I tried to tell them I saw something like you,” Steve admitted with a low huff of air. 

The creature shook its head with an emphatic motion and, to Steve’s consternated amazement, actually waggled a tentacle back and forth at Steve. 

“No telling about you, huh?” Steve said. “Guess you don’t want people coming after you,” he said after a moment of mulling it over. “They’d hurt you, wouldn’t they? Or take you away?” Steve realized with a jolt of sadness. 

The creature nodded again, once, its mouth pulling into a frown. It sank lower into the water, not quite hiding, but the implication was clear. 

“Your secret is safe, then. I owe you at least that much. Promise. And I always keep my promises,” Steve agreed, then pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over them. It stared at him, then slunk down a bit, as if satisfied by the assurance. 

He looked around the small island. It was, in its own, strange way, beautiful here, with the night breeze sweeping through the palms under a canopy of stars, he could admit that much, and, well, at least he wasn’t zalone. He thought, if he had been alone, he might have gone mad here before he starved, but it seemed the creature was proving to stave off both possibilities, at least for now. 

“I have to admit, I always wanted something fantastical to happen, you know. Not…this, admittedly,” Steve acknowledged with a quick grimace. “But, I used to wish that I got to have this life full of adventures. See the world, all that,” Steve told the creature, which regarded him with a quizzical expression that in the moonlight looked a lot like interest. “Guess that’s why I came down here. I’m from Brooklyn. Originally. Bit of a, ah...a long way from home, I guess you could say.”

It cocked its head at him, tentacles twisting beneath it in the soft waves, and made a chirping sound that seemed encouraging. Curious, even, Steve thought, shaking his head a bit in stupefaction at the whole situation. 

“All those names you didn’t like, they’re from books, which was about as close as I could get to actual adventures,” Steve told the beast, though why he felt the need to say it out loud right now, he couldn’t say. It was strangely easy, though, the words rolling off his tongue in a way they hadn’t in years. “I was bedridden as a child. One thing after another since I was born, and then scarlatina almost killed me when I was fourteen. Would have, except for my Ma, and then she got it and wasn’t so lucky,” he paused while the creature made a soft, chirruping sound that for all the world seemed like sympathy. Steve stared at it a moment, then decided he could accept what his mind was telling him or keep moving the line on what could and could not be. 

“We didn’t have much, especially not after Da died. But, I had books and then the serials,” Steve told it. “I lived through them, basically. Meanwhile, I dreamed about something exciting happening to me. Something like this, even. Cast away on a deserted island with some undiscovered creature from the deep. That’s the kind of thing that happened in those stories. To a poor, scrawny kid from Brooklyn too sick to leave his bed, it sounded so great, you know? All those adventures,” Steve asked in a high, tight voice, running a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Steve muttered. “I guess I’m just, I’m trying to...I don’t know what to do with any of this. I thought that was the end of me, back there with the Valkyrie, and now it’s not, and...well, I don’t know why I’m telling my life story to a--a whatever you are. Guess I just don’t want to be a stranger to you, if this is...if this is how it goes.”

He was shaking, Steve realized, cold and clammy, but not from the air. He supposed accepting the creature meant accepting other things, too. The fear and desperation threatened to claw their way up his throat. Steve could feel them sitting there at the ready, twin devils, one for each shoulder. 

He was going to die here. Unless by some miracle, a ship happened this way and saw him, he was going to die alone on this God-forsaken island, a world away from Bucky and Nat and Sam, good hearted, loyal Sam who had insisted on coming with Steve when he’d announced his plans, and was probably dead at the bottom of the sea. All the people he’d needed to get away from by coming here, and now, they were all he could think about. 

Strangely, the creature was watching him with what seemed to Steve to be a softly consoling look, with its eyes a bit downcast and tentacles drooping into the water. It looked away, staring off at the sea for a moment, then turned back to Steve and nodded again, almost like it was trying to indicate that it understood. Maybe it did. Maybe this thing, perhaps near the last of its kind, if there were, indeed, still others somewhere out there, maybe it knew all too well what it was like to be alone and to yearn for something more than what it seemed life had handed to you.

Life had handed him this, Steve thought. Life. That thing Nat had accused him of running away from all those months ago. Life had brought him here, now, to face a choice. A second chance. Give up or try to go on. He’d been ready for the sea to take him as the storm roiled over the ship. Welcomed it, in a way. And yet now…Steve drew in a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. He’d been ready to die for years. Expected it. On a battlefield, with an explosion ringing in his ears and a ball of lead in his gut, like countless others. He’d prepared himself for that. They all had. He hadn’t prepared for how to survive, and here, now, that was all he could think about. 

He opened his eyes and looked back at the creature, where it floated at the water’s edge, almost like it was tip-toeing over the waves. I want to go home, he realized. It was a clear, painfully bright thought that burned its way through his chest. Home. One word that held so much. 

“All I ever wanted was adventure. Guess be careful what you wish for, huh?” Steve said with a thick wetness tinging his voice. He tried a smile, though it came out flat and hard. 

The creature snorted, then nodded, head bouncing and expression mirroring Steve’s. It was such a peculiarly human look of commiseration that it took Steve aback for a moment. Steve grinned again, rueful and a bit chagrined, and, to his surprise, the creature smiled, too, eyes bright and full of amusement. 

Steve’s smile widened, and he found himself shaking his head, a bubble of delighted laughter filling his chest. Everything about this was far too incredible to think about too much, and yet, here it was, happening to him. To Steve Rogers. The nobody from Brooklyn who filled his head with stories of adventures he’d never be able to take, then signed up for a war that promised a fight on the side of the angels only to realize that war made demons of them all. 

“Bet you get up to all kinds of adventures with the whole ocean out there. Ever meet a shark?” Steve asked. The creature nodded and scrunched up his face, then slapped the surface of the water with one of his tentacles hard enough to send a spray of water arching high into the air. “Fought it off, did you? Amazing. How about one of those giant whales? Have you seen one of those?” The thing nodded, eagerly this time, then made a wide motion with its hands. 

“Huge, right? Like, you can’t believe something that big is still out there. One washed ashore out on Coney Island one time. We had to take a boat to get out there to see it, only the guy who had the boat was charging a nickel, and me and Buck—Bucky, my…he was—is--my friend, my best--he….” Steve trailed off and flattened his mouth into a thin line.

The creature hummed, a vibrating sound that was oddly soothing. Steve swallowed past the lump in his throat, and almost stopped there, but the memory was so strong in his mind, the words seem to flow off his tongue of their own accord.

“Anyway, we stowed away on it, ‘cause we wanted to see the whale, and the guy caught us. Threatened to leave us over there. I think I had nightmares for weeks about being stuck out there with this dead whale with the flies and birds pecking away at it. Smelled terrible,” Steve recalled, wrinkling his nose as the vivid memory of the bleached bones protruding from putrid, decaying flesh hit him. 

“All the ladies covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs. I thought it was going to be neat, you know? Seeing this big, dead whale. Like finding dinosaur bones. It was just kind of sad, though,” Steve remembered with a frown, looking up at the creature in front of him, even more amazing for simply existing than the massive whale had been, but here, too, with this beast, there was a sense of melancholy that hung over it the same way it had shrouded everyone on the beach that day, the same way Steve had felt when he looked at Hammer’s tall, white bears with their soulless black eyes staring back at him from the front page of the newspaper.

“We always used to dig for those down by the riverbank, me and Bucky, when I was well enough to get out for a bit. Dinosaur bones, pirate treasure, that kind of thing. Found an arrowhead once,” Steve said with a shrug and a lopsided half-smile. 

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess I just…” Steve stopped and sighed. “I’m glad you’re here. Whatever you are. I’m glad you saved me. I know that should be easy to say, but, honestly, if you’d asked me a few days ago, I don’t know if I would have known that I would be glad of that. Suppose I’m having some sort of revelation here. Beyond just the whole talking to you thing I’m doing.”

The creature tilted its head at him again, giving Steve a soft look made even softer in the moonlight, then made that same trilling purr sound again, its tentacles swirling and churning beneath him, dipping in and out of the water like some kind of long, ripped skirt. 

“You’re glad to have someone to talk to, or whatever we’re doing, is that it?” Steve asked, settling back on his hands in the sand and considering the creature. “Is it just you or are there, ah, more...like you?”

The creature stared at him, then shook its head, its brow drawing together into a look of sadness and...regret? Something. 

“You really do understand me, don’t you?” Steve said with no small amount of amazement. 

The thing squared its shoulders, glared at him and chittered, an odd, gasping sound that Steve would have sworn sounded…annoyed, if he had to put a word to it. It lifted its head, scrunched its face together, then waved its arms dismissively in the air, before ducking back down into the water again until just its eyes glared at Steve over the glasslike-top of the waves. It puffed air into a burst of bubbles and made a disgruntled, snorting sound that almost sounded like it was…well,  _ harrumphing _ at him, though that made no sense.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve laughed, holding up a hand in apology. “Didn’t mean to offend. God, I can’t believe I’m apologizing--you know what? Nevermind. I guess I’m still adjusting to the idea of you being real and not some hallucination I’m having.” He paused, considering the creature for a long moment. “I’m just saying, if this is how I go, then at least I get to see something truly amazing first. Never thought I’d actually get to have one of those adventures for real, you know? Not like this, that’s for sure. Marooned on a deserted island with a--a whatever you are. Sounds like something out of one of Stark’s Amazing Adventures or something. God, I used to love those when I was a kid.”

The creature was staring at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, as if momentarily fixed in place. Then, all of a sudden, it started making all kinds of agitated movements and sounds, tentacles swirling high above the water, then, splashing down with loud, wet popping sounds before it settled again, a strangely forlorn look crossing its all-too-human face. 

“Always used to imagine what it would be like to go off and do that kind of thing. Something amazing,” Steve said, looking down at his feet curled into the sand. “Thought the war would be an adventure. That’s what they said, anyway, when you signed up. Be a hero. Adventure of a lifetime,” Steve said with a thick wetness tinging his voice. He tried a smile, though it came out flat and hard. 

The creature lifted itself out of the water a bit, then nodded once, face twisting into a rueful expression that mirrored Steve’s. It was such a peculiarly human look of commiseration that it took Steve aback for a moment. 

“Should’ve been a hell of a lot more specific about what kind of adventure I was looking for, right?” Steve acknowledged, raising his eyebrows and huffing out a low chuckle. Steve felt a deprecating smile form, and he shook his head, a bit chagrined, and, to his surprise, the creature smiled, too, eyes bright and full of amusement, and it chuffed, almost like a wet cough, but Steve would have sworn on his life that it was a laugh. 

“Did you just laugh?” Steve asked in amazement. “You can laugh? Of course, you can. Why not? This is crazy, isn’t it? I’m dreaming or hallucinating or—or I’ve finally gone mad, haven’t I?” he questioned, shaking his head with stunned laughter. 

It should terrify him, he supposed, but Steve’s smile widened, and he found himself laughing, a bubble of delight filling his chest. It was too much. All of it. Too much. Too strange, too bewildering, too bizarre. And yet…it was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in his whole life, like he had suddenly been thrust into the middle of one of those stories he loved. Everything about this was far too incredible to think about too much, and yet, here it was, happening to Steve Rogers, the nobody from Brooklyn who filled his head with stories of adventures he’d never be able to take, then signed up for a war that promised a fight on the side of the angels only to realize that war made demons of them all. Years of pain and fear that ebbed into numbness and inertia were swept away by the strangeness of it all. He felt alive and  _ present  _ in a way he hadn’t for a long time. 

Maybe none of this was real. Maybe it was all in his head, like poor Sanderson after he lost half his skull to a Confederate shelling and thought he was back on his grandad’s farm. If Steve thought about it objectively, that seemed the likely truth, but it didn’t feel like the truth. This felt more true, despite the unreality of it, than just about anything had in a long, long time, Steve realized.

“What a pair we make, huh?” Steve huffed out a low chuckle, shaking his head in wonder. The creature looked at him, a soft smile playing on its mouth, then slunk backwards into the waves. “You leaving me?” Steve called out. It stopped and waited, hovering there in the shallows on its mass of tentacles that moved in time with the waves. “You’ll come back, right?” Steve asked. 

He didn’t mean to sound quite so worried, but the creature seemed to catch on quickly enough. It surged forward a bit, humming in that strange, low juddering sound, then nodded, giving Steve a small smile, like it was trying to be reassuring. It turned, swam out a bit, then looked back at Steve over its shoulder and gave him a last, lingering look that was shadowed with something like sorrow, then disappeared beneath the shadowy waters. The top of its head popped up a moment later by the base of one of the larger boulders, watching Steve.

The creature watched him for a long moment from its place by the boulder, then slowly slipped under the water, not to resurface this time. At least not where Steve could see it, though he scanned the water for any sign. Finally giving up, Steve lay back against the cool sand. 

A loud splash sounded somewhere a little further away. Steve grinned. In an odd way, he realized he rather liked the strange, clever creature who yelled at the stupid human in octopus or whatever it was and laughed with him, as amazing as the idea seemed to Steve. Whatever manner of beast it was, the creature had saved him. It was smart and knew the island and the waters, and it offered at least a chance at survival here, which meant a chance at getting home.  _ Home _ . God, he wanted that. More than he would have thought possible. 

Another splash, this one off to the right. It was weirdly comforting, knowing the creature was still there. He wondered, briefly, if that was why the thing was making so much noise, since Steve knew well enough that he could move silently when it wanted to. He was probably ascribing far too much humanity to it, but it was hard not to, as much as it seemed to understand. Certainly, it was far beyond some porpoise entertaining islanders in return for a fresh catch. 

Steve stared up at the unending carpet of stars above him where the moon hung low and bright, casting a long, glowing line of light across the sea. This whole thing had an air of the surreal about it, but whatever the creature was, it was here, and that meant Steve wasn’t alone, and that was something. He would have to think of a name for it. Something worthy of this strange adventure they were apparently having together. Tomorrow, he’d suggest Ichabod and Percival, just to see the creature’s reaction, he thought with a slight smile. 

An odd lightness kept floating through his mind that he recognized from years of sitting in a hard bed, staring out the window and listening to the world go by. Hope. He had hope. Just a small glimmer of it now, but it was there, and he thought maybe the last time he felt that, he had been in his own bed reading about someone else’s grand life. Steve laughed lowly. His ten-year-old self would never believe it, he thought, feeling his face break into a wide grin that was part disbelief, part wonder. Careful what you wish for, kiddo, Steve thought again, with a bit of a morbid chuckle at his own expense. You just might get it, and fate was a cruel mistress, who has a way of giving you what you think you want in the most unexpected ways.

After all, Steve thought with a sigh, here he was, stuck on a desert island and having an amazing adventure. 

He was probably going to die here. 

Somewhere out in the ocean, the creature splashed, and Steve let sleep claim him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Steve reached for the water cask, its metal bindings still blessedly intact, and popped it open. It was a fine one, he noted, opening it to find a fat, silver chain and coin dangling from the stopper to help keep whatever infections might grow in the water over time at bay. He drank greedily, sputtering and coughing, then wiping his hand across his mouth and forcing himself to slow down. 

The water-cask was one of several similar barrels, all bearing different merchant marks, appeared the first morning he woke up on the beach, along with a long, silvery fish and several scallops, which had made a fine meal once he managed to get a fire going. No small feat on such a waterlogged place. The creature had watched him in fascination for a while, finally floating up to the shoreline and making quick work of Steve’s rather poor attempt at using the friction from a couple of somewhat waterlogged sticks to get a flame going. Turns out, if you have an extra six, very well muscled “hands”, this task is a lot easier. 

Since then, his slippery friend had provided whatever bounty it managed to scavenge from the deep or from nearby islands or perhaps even some pirate’s hidden storage larder, at least Steve assumed that was where the creature foraged. The help was certainly appreciated, if somewhat astonishing, since the long stick Steve had managed to shape into a spear with the dagger the creature had rather concerningly lobbed at him hadn’t proved much use in finding a meal. The fish that haunted the shoreline where Steve could reach were used to danger lurking and largely too quick for his rudimentary spear. Instead, the creature provided a veritable bounty of fish, crab, fruits, even the occasional unlucky seabird that Steve plucked and roasted. All things considered, and to Steve’s continued astonishment, his rescuer proved to be not only incredibly adept, but, well, _ thoughtful _ came to mind.

His thirst momentarily sated, Steve looked out towards the sea from underneath the makeshift lean-to he had constructed out of what few materials to be found on the island and the bits of wreckage that the creature brought up from the deep. Wind-swept waves were glancing over the shore under a clear, blue sky and empty horizon. He couldn’t spy the creature from here, but he knew it was there, likely waiting in its usual spot for Steve to come down for his morning swim, a habit he had gotten into after waking up itching from whatever it was in the sand that first night. Since then, he had managed to make a bedding of some of the larger leaves he pulled from the trees packed over a soft, sandy clump of sand, but he still looked forward to the routine of rinsing off in the morning and talking to, or at least talking _ at _, the creature. 

At some point, when the days here slipped into weeks, he supposed he had accepted that the creature understood far more than seemed possible, but it nevertheless found new ways to amaze him, he thought, recalling its antics with a slight smile. It was, _ whatever _it was, something extraordinary, he was certain of that. 

Steve stood up, noting as he did that his leg was a bit stiff this morning. Not terrible, he assessed as he made his way towards the water’s edge. His wounded calf and the cut on his foot had all but healed up in the last few weeks, thanks again to the creature, who saw to it that Steve had plenty of seaweed to dress them with. And he was still very much alive, having not starved or fallen ill from lack of potable water. That, and the materials for his shelter, was largely thanks to his new patron, Steve thought with a bemused smile as he made his way down to the beach. 

Small ripples lapped at the shore, and the sea stretched out towards an endless horizon. Nothing moved out there except waves and the occasional bird.. No telltale puffs of sails, at least. He hadn’t seen a single ship since he woke up here, which meant wherever this was, it was pretty far off the usual trade routes and even out of the way of the less reputable crews, which, Steve supposed, was good if you were something like the creature and wanted to avoid much contact with the human world, as it seemed wont to do. Not that Steve could blame it. Humans had, in Peggy’s terms, rather mucked it up, he could admit. 

Steve watched the sun’s light spread out over the water in long, glowing fingers as it rose for a long moment, then looked over towards the rocks. The creature was there, as it always was this time of morning, basking on the rocks where it soaked up the sun, along with a few of its smaller brethren. 

The creature’s eyes were closed and its neck dipped back, face pointed at the morning sun. It was strikingly beautiful in its own way. Steve could admit that now that he was fairly sure it wasn’t going to eat him, he thought with a smile. It’s thick tentacles curled this way and that, a dark, mottled greyish-brown this morning, Steve saw, to match the rocks. Its chest was that of any other man, though tanned, and well defined, with a path of sparsely-haired muscle leading into its tentacled skirt. The blue stone necklace it always wore glinted in the sun, and it sometimes idly touched it, as if to make sure it was still there. 

It was strong, Steve knew that much. Not just the pieces of wreckage it occasionally raised from the deep, but it had managed to drag Steve himself to safety. Not just its arms, which were bulky enough to suggest the strength there, but those tentacles were nimble and powerful at the same time. Able to pick bits of shell from the sea floor and lift large pieces of flotsam it found and brought to shore for Steve to use in what was becoming an admittedly ramshackle home of sorts. 

It’s face could be that of any other man, except for the rows of gills along its neck that fluttered at is breathed and made odd noises to punctuate its expressive face when it was trying to communicate. Well, maybe not quite that of just any average man, to be fair. It was a handsome face, Steve could acknowledge. Thick, wavy hair over dark, honeyed eyes, high cheekbones, and a skillfully trimmed beard that had stymied Steve’s imagination until he caught the creature with a razor blade and mirror one morning, shaving like anyone else as if such a thing weren’t at all odd. Steve had stared for long minutes while the creature cut the blade over its cheeks and neck, earning an annoyed splash in his general direction when it noticed him, before it snorted at him and went back to its ministrations. It remained one of the strangest things Steve had seen here, but somehow, the profound oddity of it all seemed to suit the circumstance. _ Of course _, the creature shaved, and meticulously at that. Why not, Steve thought with a grin as he stroked his own beard. He should shave, too, he supposed. 

In some other, far different, setting, Steve would have noticed a man who looked like that, he thought with a stray rush of heat. Were the creature a man, he would certainly have been called handsome by anyone. Were the creature a man, of course. Which it most definitely was not, and so one would not really refer to it as handsome. Striking, though, certainly. 

Steve shook his head and swiped a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. Father Flannery would tell him to pray more, no doubt, to curb such wicked thoughts, but that hadn’t worked when he was thirteen and he somehow doubted it would work now, stuck in the middle of nowhere with only the creature for company. Sometime after Fredericksburg, he had made a deal with the Almighty that he could allow himself the stray licentious thought, so long as he never acted upon them, and he had kept to his word, hadn’t he? He was an artist, wasn’t he? And the creature was beautiful, the way a--a lion or a tiger was beautiful, nothing more. By any measure, the creature was extraordinary to look upon, if only for its utter unusualness, and particularly pleasing when its tentacles shone red and gold. Watching it change to match its environment was fascinating, to be sure, but Steve could admit to being partial to the bright, bold colors it usually favored when it was just swimming about or reclining on the sand. So, yes, if he were being objective, the creature was...not unpleasant to look upon, at least. 

“Morning, Shellhead,” Steve greeted the creature as he approached. 

It popped its head up and gave Steve a disgruntled look, then went back to its morning routine of sunning itself and pretending not to notice Steve while simultaneously paying the utmost attention. Steve wasn’t sure it quite approved of the nickname, though it responded to it well enough. Steve had seen the creature carrying a piece of broadside that would become part of Steve’s shelter to the shore a few days after he woke up here, no small feat given how much that weighed, and thought of the small crabs who scuttled across the sand in their giant shell houses, and the name had stuck. 

“Anything of interest out there?” Steve asked. 

The creature stared at him for a moment, then lazily lifted one of its tentacles out of the water. The tip was wrapped around a silver cup, a rather nice one, too, Steve noticed, all engraved and finely wrought, which it tossed onto the shore at Steve’s feet. Steve bent down and picked it up, turning the cup over in his hand. 

“Where’d you find this?” he asked, thumbing at the engraving. He didn’t actually expect an answer, but he had gotten rather used to simply saying his thoughts out loud. The alternative of neverending silence wasn’t particularly appealing. “It’s got the Stark Trading Company mark on it. Must have been from one of theirs, though I can’t really remember them losing many ships. Well. At least not until recently,” he grinned ruefully. “Guess there’s all kinds of things down there, what with all the wrecks over the years, huh? Sam once told me there were thousands of ships down there. Spanish galleons with their cursed Conquistador gold. The merfolk won’t even go near them.” 

The creature snorted and pursed its lips, raising one eyebrow in such an oddly human look of disdain that Steve was taken aback for a moment. He grinned and shook his head, clucking his tongue against his teeth. “You’re really going to be judging me for thinking maybe there’s maybe something to those stories, are ya then? You?” Steve teased. “Go on, go on, give me that look you like to give me when you think I can’t be trusted to put my boots on the right foot. Ah, there it is. That’s the look.”

The creature rolled its eyes, but it smiled, almost begrudgingly. 

“Thank you. For the cup. Don’t suppose you’re going to find me a dinghy down there one day? Maybe a nice skiff?” Steve asked with a sigh. The creature looked at him, then glanced away. Steve grimaced flatly and looked out over the water. 

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Shellhead,” Steve said, giving the creature a slight smile. “At least until rescue arrives. Which, based on our current tally of ships sailing past...might be a while.”

With a heave, Steve tossed the cup farther up onto shore where the tide couldn’t reach it, then shucked off what remained of his shirt and pants and stepped out into the clear, cool water. The creature watched him, as it always did. Steve couldn’t decide if it perhaps thought he would drown in the shallow water or if it was just curious. He ducked under the water, then came up, shaking his head to jettison some of the water. When he looked over to the rocks, the creature was gone, though it reappeared a moment later just a few yards away from where Steve swam, as it always did. 

Steve smiled at it and splashed water in its direction. It gave him a look that suggested it questioned Steve’s sanity, then slapped one of its massive tentacles through the water, sending a wave towards Steve that overtopped his head. He came up sputtering and laughing. 

“You have hands, you know. Technically, I think that’s cheating,” Steve grinned. It snorted at him, then disappeared under the water for a moment, before its eyes resurfaced, bobbing the waves just out of arm’s reach. 

Steve had gotten rather used to the creature’s presence, as strange as it all was. And it certainly seemed to enjoy Steve’s company, which was, in Steve’s experience, almost as strange an occurrence. Steve sometimes wondered if it had brought him here for his entertainment value and plied him with food and water and other gifts in return for his presence in what must be a lonely existence. Not that Steve minded, really, the alternative being a watery grave. 

Besides, the creature was easy to talk to, and if it didn’t speak, it managed to communicate just fine most of the time. It’s face was just as expressive as any other man’s, if not moreso. Like now, it watched him, waiting, eyes alight with anticipation, because it knew Steve would tell it stories. Steve wasn’t sure when their little morning ritual had begun, bit it was nice, he could admit, having the creature’s rapt attention on him while he talked, and it was easier, somehow, to talk to the creature, even about things he hadn’t talked to anyone about. He would have said it was because the creature couldn’t really talk back, but that was true of many things, and he hadn’t talked to the wall or the chair back home. The creature seemed oddly understanding, even empathetic at times, though Steve knew it couldn’t possibly truly follow everything Steve told it, as much as some part of his mind insisted that it did. Nevertheless, it was clearly eager to listen, and it lacked any sense of judgment or scorn, at least not for Steve’s stories, and that kindheartedness, or whatever you wanted to call it, counted for a lot, he supposed. 

“Remember how I told you I was sickly as a boy?” Steve asked. The creature nodded, then a burst of bubbles formed under its chin, which Steve took for an expression of derision or disbelief. “Believe what you will, but it’s true. I would draw. All kinds of things. The things I read about in those books or magazines. My Ma. My friends. Things I just saw in my head. Anything. I used to love that,” Steve continued. He lifted his feet up off the sand and floated, letting the gentle waves lift and set him. The water rushed into his ears, leaving a hollow, calming echo. “I was going to be an artist. Before the war. Not exactly a lucrative career choice, I know, but I’d thought maybe I’d get a few commissions from one of those periodicals. Maybe some advertisements,” Steve shrugged lightly. 

He didn’t say it out loud, because even saying it to Shellhead seemed crazy, but in his more fanciful daydreams, he had imagined painting the images for something like Marvels. There was a vivid memory in his mind of Tony Stark trekking up some snowcapped mountainside, his pack on his back, a staff in one hand, and his fedora pulled low over his face, hiding him in shadow, as it always did. Steve remembered liking the air of mystery, while also, upon occasion, wondering what the reclusive explorer looked like in real life. Stark had been pointing at something in the distance, Steve recalled, and if you read the article, you learned it was where some creature almost as amazing as Shellhead had supposedly been sighted. Steve always liked the drawings that accompanied Stark’s Amazing Adventures the best. They had a real sense of adventure to them. It had always been little more than a dream, and he knew that well enough, but it still made his chest burn with a bit of a pang to think about maybe being able to do something like that. It was beyond impossible, of course, but, well...it wasn’t like he wasn’t in the middle of impossible as it was, he supposed, and all those dreams, as crazy as they were, sustained him during a time when little else did. 

“Bucky said I was crazy. They weren’t going to hire an Irish, and I ought go work at the cannery if I could get in. Better than the docks or digging ditches. The cannery, that was the thing, then the War came and they started making bullets instead of canning vegetables. ‘Course, what does he know? He was going to be a priest, of all things, before Sumter happened.”

The creature disappeared under the water, though Steve could see its shadow gliding along the bottom. Its eyes popped up just to the right of Steve’s shoulder, and he felt the light brush of one of its tentacles under his neck and another just at his elbow. He would have thought they would be unpleasant and slimy by the look of the shine to them, and they _ were _ coated with some kind of viscous material, but they were surprisingly soft and gentle, like a very fine velvet wrapped around something very firm and powerful. The one at his neck tugged a bit at the chain that held his sutler coin. At some point, Steve had stopped being amazed by the creature’s comprehension, but there were times, he could admit, that its perceptiveness still managed to catch him off guard. 

“That’s right. Not much call for artists once the War got on,” Steve said. He floated for a few more minutes, then felt one of the tentacles tickle at his hand where it floated next to his side. “Hey, what are you--” he started, rolling a bit and putting his feet down as the creature pushed his hand out of the water and coiled its tentacle around it. One of the suckers on the end held a small stick that it must have picked up from the bottom, which it shoved between Steve’s fingers. He barked out a surprised laugh. 

“You think I should go back to drawing, is that it?” Steve asked, looking over at the creature. “I’d draw you, if I could.” It splashed and slunk lower in the water, nearly disappearing again, except for its eyes. “I’m serious, Shellhead. You’d make a good model. No one would ever believe you were real, you know, but I’d know. I’d put you over the fireplace and people would wonder what in the world you were supposed to be, and I could just tell them, something I thought up, ma’am or sir. Not that I’d have a place with a fireplace, but, well, you’d look good there, if I did, Shellhead.” 

He stopped and looked away, towards the sun where it hung low in the morning sky. The waves were starting to pick up. He could feel their motion shift the bottom under his feet. He looked back over at the creature, his mouth pulling into a curious smile. 

“Haven’t wanted to draw anything since...well, for a long time. Guess that something good’s come of this, huh?” Steve told the creature with a note of surprise at his own realization. 

The creature regarded him, then smiled, a soft, almost wistful smile. It could be so damn expressive at times. So human-like. And Steve knew well enough that it was smart. Smarter than him, perhaps. Sam would probably agree with that assessment, Steve thought with a snort that turned into a laugh. It cocked its head at him, then made a noise that Steve took for curiosity. 

“I was thinking how smart you are,” Steve said. “Smart enough to fend for yourself out here. And fend for me, too, truth be told. Sam--my friend, Sam, he was the helmsman on the _ Valkyrie _\--I was thinking he would agree that you are smarter than I am, but he would say that was no great accomplishment,” Steve grinned. The creature frowned at him, it’s tentacles rising and falling above the water as they coiled beneath it. Away from the rocks, it was back to its usual red and gold coloration, Steve noted. “Don’t want to insult ya, Shellhead.”

It hummed, lower this time, sort of gurgling, and Steve felt one of the tentacles wrap around his arm, then slide off, barely a touch, but soothing, somehow. The contact, he supposed. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone--or anything--had touched him in a gentle-like way. Probably the sawbones who took the bullet out of his shoulder and patted his leg before moving on to the next case. Wasn’t exactly a lot to choose from there, Steve thought with a deprecating sigh. 

“Never really had much schooling. Mostly my Ma helped me a bit at home, on account of the Public School Society not allowing Catholics. She could read, my Ma, and she taught me as best she could. I’m not the best, but I can manage. The Bible was all we had to go by when I was little. Liked the Psalms the best, those were nice,” Steve told the creature. It gave him a sort of troubled look, which Steve supposed probably meant it didn’t quite understand. 

“When I got older, I got some stuff from Bucky. My best friend? I told you about him. He got a place at one of the Catholic schools,” Steve continued. Shellhead always liked whatever escapades he shared about him and Bucky in their youth, and the creatures eyes lit up a bit at the name. “He always had a head for books and such. And his Da owned the mercantile down in the fourth ward, so that didn’t hurt, and he’d let us read the periodicals like Marvels without paying if we swept up around the store. Always kind of wished I could go to school with Bucky, but there was never enough room at the Irish schools for all the kids pouring in, and then I had to work after my Ma got sick. Mostly day laboring. Good work, but hard, you know? Helped on the Croton Aqueduct. And the High Bridge. That was neat. Then the War started. That was good work, too, I guess. Good work, doing what we did. But, _ hard. _”

Steve looked over at the creature, which regarded him with as sympathetic a look as Steve could imagine. It was disconcerting, at times, just how human the creature could seem. If you ignored the tentacles, anyway, Steve thought with a sigh. 

“You’re easy to talk to, you know that, Shellhead? I was never very good at just talking to most people. Didn’t know what to say, I guess. In the War, it seemed like all we talked about was home at first and then...we just sort of stopped talking. I don’t know,” Steve said, drifting a bit as he looked out at the sunrise. 

“Bucky’d probably say it’s the whole not talking back thing,” Steve said around a deprecating laugh. “He’d say I was pretty good at talking _ at _ people, when I wanted to give orders or get them to do something, and that’s maybe what I’m doing with you, I don’t know. You’d probably splash me if you got bored, I reckon. Though, I gotta say, you do manage to make your feelings known just fine. Who you?” Steve grinned when the creature looked taken aback and put a hand to its chest, as if startled by such a scurrilous accusation. “Yeah, you. Come on now, you know you do! You hurled a coconut at me when you got annoyed I wasn’t putting that board for the lean-to in the right place. It did not, ‘slip out of your hand,” Steve said, rolling his eyes as the creature mimed something that resembled dropping a coconut. “That was on purpose, I know it was. Your aim is too good,” he laughed. 

The creature chittered in a rapid, wet, huffing noise, then crossed its arms over its chest and glared at Steve. 

“Yes, fine, you were right, it did not, in fact, work all that well to keep the rain out. Did I not admit that?” Steve chided lightly. It shot him a satisfied smirk. “You like that, huh? Me saying you were right. You were right, Shellhead. Happy? I am but a simple human who has never built anything in his life, unless you count lifting and carrying and digging as I’m told, or rigging a tent in the muck, so I do beg your forgiveness most humbly, O’ Great Builder of Island Shanties. I’m not knocking it, now, don’t look at me like that,” Steve said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture when the creature shot him a disgruntled look. “It’s better constructed than half the tenements in Brooklyn, I’d wager. I’ve got my bedroom and my kitchen. What I like to call the parlor. Ma always wanted a place with a parlor. Or at least to work in one, but there were too many Irish domestics and not enough midwives for all the babies being born, least that’s what she said, so midwife it was.”

The creature lightly slapped two tentacles on top of the water, as if to add an element of agreement to Steve’s admission that he had been wrong about the building process, then sank down until only its eyes shone above the water, but for all its bluster, they were bright with mirth, Steve could tell. It really was extraordinarily expressive. 

“How come you like to listen to me talk so much, huh?” Steve asked. The creature blinked at him, then looked around. It raised its hands and two of its tentacles in a sweeping gesture, as if to say, what else would it do, and Steve found himself laughing again. 

“Captive audience, is that it? Great. Thanks,” Steve said with a fond grimace and shake of his head. 

The creature snickered at him. Steve had gotten somewhat used to the many mannerisms the creature possessed, but its ability to laugh, to share in a joke, was still somewhat unnerving. He had spent many a night thinking about the thing. What it was, where it came from, just how smart it might be. He didn’t really have any satisfactory answers, but he was glad for the company. The help, of course, yes, he couldn’t have survived this long without the help, but he, well--he _ liked _ the creature. It was strange to think of it as a friend, but he didn’t know what else to call it. Assuming he hadn’t slipped into insanity and this was just some fever dream in his mind, he supposed there was no better word for it. Steve ducked down under the water for a beat before coming up and shaking the water out of his hair. He looked over at the creature again where it bobbed in the waves, watching him. 

“Go ahead, laugh all you want. I may not exactly be a scintillating conversationalist, but at least I’m not the one who’d be on a plate with a side of butter back in Manhattan,” Steve grinned, pointing at the creature. 

It stilled, then scowled at him, shooting him a reproachful look. It seemed...almost hurt, Steve thought. Steve was getting pretty good at figuring out the creature’s moods, and he thought that was about right. 

“Sorry, Shellhead. It was only a joke, and not a very good one at that. Didn’t mean to offend. Besides,” Steve paused, then smiled mischievously, “you’d probably taste terrible,” Steve said with a shrug. 

After, Steve figured he probably should’ve seen it coming, but when one of the tentacles wound its way around his leg in a flash and jerked his feet out from under him, he still came up spluttering. 

“Hey! That’s hardly fair!” Steve shouted in admonition, then grinned, threw back his head and found himself laughing. He ducked his head in mock surrender and put his hand over his heart. “You’re something else, Shellhead. Guess I had that coming.”

The creature hummed a sort of low, trilling sound through its gills that sounded a lot like an agreeable sort of laugh, then dipped below the surface and came out spouting an arc of water from its mouth that hit Steve square on the cheek, then grinned with what Steve wanted to call triumph and disappeared under the water before Steve could manage to retaliate. 

“Am I forgiven, then?” Steve called out to the waves. A few of its tentacles broke the surface, twirling in a mass, and then its head, which it dipped in apparent acquiescence. “Thanks,” Steve said, then with more seriousness, “I am sorry, Shellhead. I didn’t mean--I know you’re not like the other, ah, well. Not like anything, really. I shouldn’t have made a joke.”

The creature looked at him a long time. Contemplative. Like it was mulling something over. Then finally, its mouth twisted into a rueful grimace and it shrugged, then smiled, almost shyly, its eyes warm and fond on Steve. It hummed agreeably through its gills and disappeared under the water again. Steve supposed that meant all was forgiven.

Once again, Steve was struck by just how human it’s face was. Beautiful, he thought to himself. It was easy to forget, especially now, like this, when he could only see the creature’s face. In another situation, of course, Steve mentally corrected. Were he simply a man walking down the street, and not...whatever the creature was. Then, he would likely be considered attractive. Very attractive. Which, of course, did not matter in the slightest, so Steve didn’t know why he was even thinking about it. Again. It was possible he was getting a bit weak-minded out here. The sun, he told himself. The heat. The lack of anyone else, except Shellhead, who could blame him for, well, whatever it was he was doing. Nothing. Noticing. Noticing _ nothing _. 

He wondered how long it would be before he really did start to go mad. He wondered if maybe he wouldn’t notice if--when--that happened. It was something to think about, he supposed, but what else could he do except try to get by? And right now, the best way to get by, the_ only _thing that got him through the day and maybe staved off whatever madness awaited, was this...friendship, or whatever it was, with the creature. Steve looked around, searching for where the creature had gone. 

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be? Sneak attack and then you slink off, huh?” Steve called out as the creature pushed itself out of the water and onto the rocks, then ambled down the side to a small, shallow pool that barely caught the waves. It cast an idle look over its shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised over a tight-lipped, disdainful expression, then went about using a couple of its tentacles to pick out the small crabs that favored the crevices in the rocks and delicately pull them apart to find the meat inside. 

“Retreat is often the better part of valor, they say,” Steve shouted at it. It ignored him. “Yeah...well, I was never much good at that part myself,” Steve muttered, earning a huffing snort of apparent agreement from the creature. 

Steve made his way back to shore and put his clothes on. They were in pretty bad shape by this point, but it wasn’t like he could exactly expect the creature to go shopping for him, as much as it seemed able to find just about anything one way or the other. When he looked up, the creature was sunning itself again, though he had the strange feeling that it had been watching him just a moment before. Of course, it didn’t wear clothes, just that pendant it was so attached to, so Steve supposed it probably thought it strange to occasionally shed and then don a fabric skin. Or, maybe it just liked looking at him, the way he sometimes caught himself admiring it. In a...more scientific curiosity kind of way, that is. Like something fanciful out of Marvels. _ Anyone _ would stare at some of the strange creatures featured in there, surely. Perhaps it merely felt something similar about this human it had picked up. 

He waded over to where the creature was sprawled and sat down on the sand a short distance away, pulling his leg up and wrapping his arms around his knees. He was getting hungry now, but he trusted that the creature would leave soon and return with whatever it scrounged for Steve’s breakfast. Steve had to admit that he was impressed by the variety, especially given the lack of many resources on their shared island. The islands that dotted the region were plentiful and some, unlike this glorified sandbar, were filled with all kinds of bounty, he knew, but Shellhead had to be getting some of what he brought back from a hidden store of pirate plunder somewhere, Steve figured. Treasure maps were a penny each in port, and they weren’t worth even that, but the marauders who frequented the area did use the uninhabited islands for storage, at least that was what Sam said. It made some sense that his friend probably knew about a few, hopefully abandoned, caches. 

“Sure do wish you could talk, Shellhead,” Steve said, not for the first time. He laid his head on his knees and watched the creature. It went still at Steve’s words, then turned to look at him, its brow pulled down and eyes watery, almost wistful. “Gets kind of lonely, just hearing my own voice. I’ll bet you’d have all kinds of interesting things to say.”

He sat back and reached up to rub at his medallion. The creature mimicked the motion, touching the blue stone necklace it wore, then pointed at Steve with a chuttering, insistent noise that Steve had come to associate with avid curiosity. 

“It’s a sutler coin. The Sutlers, they’d come around the camps, usually around payday,” Steve began. “They’d sell tobacco, chocolates, all kinds of things. They didn’t really make change, though, on account of the currency shortages, so they’d give you these coins back and next time they came, you could use the coins to buy more of their stuff. ‘Course, you couldn’t use them anywhere _ else _. Pretty good business model, if you ask me. Anyway, the coins already had our regiment on them, along with the Sutler’s name, so you’d know where you could spend them, and so, sometimes...it was a thing to do to get your name engraved on them. Sew them into your clothes. You know. In case.” 

He looked away, then let his gaze trail back to the creature. It was watching him with a careful, sad-eyed look. Again, Steve wondered how much it really understood. 

“Do you know about the War? The Civil War in America, I mean?” Steve asked. It seemed like an entirely stupid question to ask of such a creature, and yet...and yet. “I know I talk about it some. The War. Which is--well, that’s neither here nor there, I guess. But, do you--have you heard of it? Know of it? I keep going on, and,” he broke off with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. “I sometimes think you understand far more than you possibly should, and then I think maybe I’m crazy and just lonely and _ want _to believe that, but--well.”

It was crazy. Wasn’t it? But, what about this wasn’t, when you got down to it. The creature was silent a long moment, then nodded once and bowed its head. It jabbed its finger towards the horizon with surprising force, a furious frown marring its features. Its tentacles swarmed underneath it, and Steve had the sense of anger and bitter, pent-up frustration rolling off of it. 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Well...yeah. So--so, anyway, we’d sew these coins into our clothes. ‘Cause sometimes, the cannonballs or grenades, there was maybe not a lot left, you know. And sometimes, well, a body, it--it sort of bloats and...a lot of the time, we didn’t know who was who. Even if it was your best friend, you couldn’t tell, not--not the way they were sometimes. So, the coins. Idea was, you could take the coin off the body, send it home to their family, you know?”

The creature gave him a solemn nod, keeping its strangely warm gaze locked on Steve while he talked. He didn’t know why he was talking so much. It was like the words had all been stored up inside or something. It didn’t make sense. But, he hadn’t been lying. Shellhead was easy to talk to. Or maybe Steve just needed to talk. He wasn’t sure. It probably didn’t really make much difference. 

“I was going to give it to Peggy. Margaret. _ Lady _ Margaret, actually, though she never used her title. This girl back home,” Steve explained when the creature raised its eyebrows in question. It sniffed, a churlish, harrumphing sound and kicked at the sand with one of its tentacles, then looked back at Steve. “Met her at an abolitionist meeting before the War. She was a firecracker, Shellhead, I’m telling you. Lit up the room. British by birth, but came to America to help with the cause. Her parents had her whole life planned out, but Peggy, she--she wanted more. She saw this incredible injustice, and she just couldn’t look away. Just couldn’t. She was amazing. You’d like her,” Steve chortled, trying to picture the meeting. “She’d probably have ordered you to find her a pair of dolphins to ride off this rock in the first week, and you’d have gladly done it and asked what else you could do to win her approval. That’s Peggy.”

The creature hummed, pursed its lips and blew a huff of air out of its gills. It didn’t seem all that impressed, though Steve wasn’t quite sure how to explain someone like Peggy to someone like Shellhead. 

“Anyway, for some reason, she took a shine to me. I don’t know what in the world she ever saw in Steve Rogers. No one else did either, I’ll tell ya that. Not that it bothered her in the slightest, what people said,” Steve said with pang of bittersweet longing at the memory. “We only knew each other a few months before the War started and I got signed up. She understood. Supported it, really. She even worked in Union intelligence. If you could call it that,” Steve harrumphed. “she helped organize it back in the beginning. All her contacts through the Underground Railroad, they’d feed her information, and she’d pass it on, best she could. We wrote each other when we could, and I saw her once when I got some leave, and then...then the War ended. I went home. Tried to pick up where we left off. Where _ I _ left off. But…” he stopped and flattened his mouth, squinting up at the sun as it warmed his skin.

“I saw an ad in the paper about working down here. For Stark Trading. Adventure on the High Seas, it said. Make your fortune. Bunch of---I mean, I knew it wasn’t like that, of course, but, I don’t know, I just--I couldn’t stay there any longer. In New York. It was like I was suffocating. Bucky, my friend, he was in Andersonville prison and--we got him back, but--I just needed to not be there. Pretty damn selfish, huh?” Steve said, shaking his head. 

To his surprise, he felt a warm hand cover his own, and he looked up to find Shellhead’s hand covering his. The creature looked at him, its eyes pulled into crescent moons, and slowly shook its head. Just for a moment, it gave Steve’s hand a squeeze, and he felt something heavy and solid stroke down his back, and then it was gone, skittering back across the sand and shallows as fast and silently as it had come. 

The creature sometimes touched him, of course, but never with quite such..._ intent _...before. It was always a stray, fleeting caress, almost like it could be accidental, but not this time. This time, there was true empathy there, Steve would stake his life on it. 

Steve stared at the creature, then felt his lips tug into a rueful smile. Always, it seemed, he underestimated the depth of the creature’s--o_ f Shellhead’ _s-- understanding. Not anymore, he vowed to himself. Whatever manner of being Shellhead was, he needed to stop thinking of it as something lesser. Shellhead was just...different. Unusual. Like the oddities that he and Bucky had seen on the poster for that travelling museum of curiosities. They, too, had been different, but still very much human… maybe more human than a lot of others. Truth was, he had seen a lot of people who had lost what remained of their humanity one way or the other, and if Shellhead managed to have that, then, well, who was Steve to say what it meant to have a soul or where the line between a person and...something else...was? 

“Thanks, Shellhead,” Steve said softly, earning a narrow-eyed, speculative look. After a pause, Shellhead jerked his head in Steve’s direction and tapped lightly at the base of his own throat, in the same spot where Steve’s medallion lay against his own. “Right,” Steve continued, sucking in a bracing breath. “I was going to give the coin to Peggy before I left. I couldn’t afford a ring, see? So, this was kind of going to be a promise, I guess. That I’d come back home. To her. We’d pick things up again. Wherever she was, I figured, she would have this and know that--that I was thinking about her. That I hadn’t forgotten what we meant to each other. That I would come back to her. Suppose you can guess the rest of the story,” Steve said, looking down as his hand wrapped around the coin. “She was right, I can admit that now, though I didn’t like hearing it then. We were different people than the people who had met before the War. If we had ever even been the people we thought we were in the beginning. And she, ah...she said--she didn’t think she could make me happy.”

Shellhead snorted with an air of disapproval, then frowned and glanced over at Steve, his face softening. Steve wasn’t sure if Shellhead was disagreeing with Peggy’s assessment or just showing solidarity, but Steve appreciated it, nonetheless. 

“To be honest, she probably understood a lot more than I gave her credit for at the time,” Steve told him, mouth twisting wryly on the words. Peggy had been too polite and too damn sympathetic to come out and say it, but it had been humiliating and horrifying without her spelling it out. He’d wanted to argue, but what was there to say, really? ‘I’m not like that’ and ‘I can be happy with you’ seemed to somehow melt into ‘How did you know?’ in his head, so he hadn’t said anything. 

“I’m still glad you found it for me. Even if it doesn’t really mean anything now. I know it probably seems stupid, but, well. I’m still glad to have it,” Steve said. “Who knows? Maybe one day, it’ll find its way to the right person. That’s...that’s what it’s about, when you get down to it, isn’t it? I guess that’s what we were all thinking about when we made them. There’s so much bad in the world, and I guess, in the end, you just want to make sure you get home. Not to--not a place. But to your person, you know? Don’t know if that’s really out there for--for someone like me, but, well. I’m just glad you found it.”

Shellhead was staring at him, eyes round and, well, almost yearning, like he was thinking about Steve’s words and finding something there that meant something to him. Maybe he was. Maybe there was someone out there Shellhead cared about, or maybe he just wanted that, the way most people did. Companionship. Love. A person who was _ yours _. Maybe that was a lot more universal than Steve could have ever realized. Shellhead stared at him a beat longer, then dropped his eyes and turned, slipping off into the sea. 

“Be careful out there, Shellhead,” Steve called out. 

The creature disappeared beneath the water as it deepened, then appeared again a little farther out, swaying with the tide as he watched Steve from afar. Steve held a hand up to wave, then let it fall, a slight frown forming. Shellhead raised a hand, waved once, his tentacles churning around him, and then was gone. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Checkmate,” Steve said, moving one of the rocks to one of the sandy squares he had drawn that served as a chessboard. 

Shellhead’s face drew back into a look of surprise, then he frowned down at the board, mouth flattening as he stroked a hand over his goatee. They were inside the copse of rocks, as had become their habit during the heat of the day when doing much of anything proved too tiring. At least here, there was shade from the sun, and since Shellhead couldn’t make it all the way up to what was now almost a small cabin near the line of trees that served as Steve’s temporary home, the cave ended up as their meeting spot. Steve thought it was sort of fitting, since this was where he had woken up with the creature that first day, terrified and disbelieving. Of course, now Steve played chess with the sea monster, he thought with a fond huff of a laugh. Of _ course _ , he did. 

Shellhead splashed a tentacle on the water as he lay on his side, partially submerged, while Steve sat with his legs crossed in front of him, watching intently as Shellhead tried to decipher how he had managed to let Steve checkmate him. A rare enough occurrence, Steve could admit, not that he was above crowing about his victory. 

“That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention,” Steve admonished archly as he crowned his rock with a small, flat shell. One of Shellhead’s tentacles tapped lightly at the sand in time with his fingers that drummed in annoyance next to the board. Shellhead pointed at him, then nodded down at the board and made a sort of harrumphing sound. 

“Don’t blame me. I was just telling a story. You were the one who got all excited about it,” Steve reminded him. “You liked that, huh? That was always one of my favorites. He wintered with the Inuit and learned how to build houses out of snow. Can you imagine? Not sure if you know what snow is--like sand, but really cold,” Steve explained. “He even claimed to have discovered the fate of the Franklin expedition, though no one would believe him. Apparently, the British didn’t much care for the notion of their fine, Christian Captain and crew taking to cannibalism. I kind of thought maybe the natives were having a bit of a go at him, to tell you the truth, but after the War...yeah, I can believe it. Desperation changes a man, be he British, Christian or anything else, I suppose,” Steve said, glancing away for a moment as his jaw worked around the words. He had seen firsthand what hunger and fear could do to men, and it wasn’t an experience he cared to ever repeat. 

“Anyway,” he said, turning back to Shellhead, “it’s not my fault Stark’s Amazing Adventures make for distracting stories. Blame him, I’m just the messenger.”

Shellhead was staring at him, wide-eyed, his jaw all but grinding together. The creature made a frustrated, groaning sound and rolled over onto his back in the sand. He wrapped a hand around the stone amulet he wore and started chittering, hands and tentacles moving animatedly as he made a series of increasingly annoyed-sounding vocalizations. 

“What? Don’t like to lose, huh?” Steve laughed, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Not going to lie, that makes it a little bit more satisfying to win.” 

Shellhead sat up and made a harsh, guttural noise, then seemed to start to make some kind of motion only to abruptly be seemingly reeled in. It almost looked like a puppet, whose strings had been cut, and any other time, it might have been comical, but there was something  _ wrong _ about it. Steve reached out and clutched Shellhead’s shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze. 

“Shellhead, are you okay?” Steve asked, shifting closer and ruining their chess game in the process.

The creature clawed at his pendant almost frantically, then grimaced and sighed, looking at Steve with a strange, longing look. The first time Steve saw Shellhead do something like this Steve had been drawing on the sand, encouraging Shellhead to try his hand at it, or, well, his  _ whatever  _ at it _ s _ ince those tentacles were incredibly dextrous, and the creature seemed to have this same kind of seizure, Steve supposed his Ma might have called it. A palsy of some kind. It was odd, that was certain, but Steve had no idea what to make of it and, whatever it was, Shellhead seemed unable to communicate the problem to him. Since then, it had happened a few more times, always when it seemed like Shellhead was trying to communicate with him in some way beyond his usual hand signals punctuated by the few noises he could make. Steve had no idea what to make of it. 

He patted Shellhead’s back a few moments, then rubbed his palm between the creatures’s shoulders, the way his Ma had when Steve had one of his attacks when he was young. He knew it wasn’t quite the same, but it seemed to help, Steve noticed, as he felt Shellhead finally begin to relax. The creature let out a puff of wet air, then sagged into the sand with a forlorn sound, more akin to a sob than anything. 

“Better?” Steve asked after Shellhead finally settled. Shellhead nodded, his eyes drooping closed with a long, frustrated-sounding sigh. “Wish you could tell me what that’s all about,” Steve sighed, his mouth pulling into a slight frown. He hated seeing Shellhead in such distress, and couldn’t shake the notion that he was somehow at fault, even though he couldn’t quite see how. 

Dealing with one of Shellhead’s episodes, as Steve had taken to calling them, was an all-too-common enough occurrence these days. Shellhead was so incredibly expressive most of the time, and then there were these moments when Steve couldn’t even begin to fathom what the creature was trying to tell him. They both seemed to find it increasingly frustrating, but Steve hadn’t been able to figure out a way around it. Knowing how intelligent Shellhead clearly was, Steve even tried writing in the sand and showing the creature letters and simple words. Shellhead managed some basic drawings just fine, but whenever he attempted anything beyond that, even a single letter, he had one of his episodes, leaving Steve unnerved and Shellhead distant and clearly miserable. 

“Didn’t mean to upset you, Shellhead. I’ve got other stories, just figured you were probably a little tired of another round of Stupid Things Steve and Bucky Did,” Steve offered with a slight grin, trying to distract his friend from whatever ailed him. Shellhead managed a small smile at the suggestion, then made a keening, alarmed noise when he noticed their game had been fairly well destroyed. 

“It’s okay. We can just call that a win for me,” Steve suggested evenly, watching as the creature’s lips rolled together into a disapproving frown when it looked at him. “There’s the Shellhead I know,” Steve laughed lightly. “A draw, then,” he agreed, earning a satisfied look. 

Steve got up and went to the back of the cave where a number of white lines were scraped into one of the rocks under their respective names. Shellhead had quite a few more lines than Steve did, the creature having taken to the game much faster than Steve would have ever imagined after attentively watching Steve as he explained it. He picked up a slightly different kind of rock and used it to make a white, chalky mark, over which he wrote the word ‘draw’, tossing a look over his shoulder when he was done and catching Shellhead smirking at him. 

He walked back and sat down on the sand by Shellhead, close enough that the creature could lean its head on his shoulder, as he seemed wont to do these days. Steve wasn’t quite sure when that had happened, but he didn’t mind the closeness. At least he wasn’t alone. He suspected Shellhead probably felt much the same. 

“Speaking of adventures, I’d wager you have all kinds of stories. What’s the most amazing thing you’ve seen out there?” Steve asked after a long moment of just listening to the waves lull against the rocks. Steve didn’t really expect an answer to the question, though Shellhead raised his head and seemed to consider it carefully. He tilted his head to look at Steve, his gaze shrewd and focused, the way he sometimes got when he looked at Steve. He pointed, tapping at Steve’s chest with his finger. 

“What?” Steve asked. Shellhead rolled his eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh, then tapped at Steve’s chest with one of his tentacles hard enough to rock Steve backwards. 

“Huh? What are you--oh. Me?” Steve said in surprise. “I don’t think you quite understood the question, Shellhead,” he chuckled. “Come on, you must have seen all kinds of extraordinary things out there! Something else like you, maybe? One of those big whales that can swallow a man? Or, I don’t know, a--a shipwreck, maybe?”

Shellhead just shook his head and pointed at Steve again, his eyes going soft. He hummed, that lulling, garbled sound that Steve found soothing for some reason, then went about grabbing for their scattered gamepieces. Steve watched as he formed the rocks and shells into the vague shape of a ship, then peeled one of the smaller shells off and pushed it into the lapping tide. Steve watched as the little shell bobbed in the waves, frowning in confusion until it hit him. 

“The lifeboat?” Steve said, stunned. “You saw the lifeboat? Did it make it, did it--did you see, did it make it?” God, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know and yet desperately yearned for the truth at the same time. 

Shellhead pushed the little shell with one tentacle until it was a little further out, then shrugged his shoulders, then nodded his head back and forth, holding one hand out and making a rocking motion with it that Steve took for uncertainty. 

“You...saw them make it away from the ship,” Steve interpreted as Shellhead nodded vigorously, “so...I guess that’s a maybe, huh?” Steve said, sagging a bit with disappointment. “Well, I guess I’ll take maybe. I lost sight of them in the storm, and I’d hoped, you know...” He tried for a smile. It didn’t quite work, but, a maybe was a lot better than they crew probably had any rights to, given the strength of that storm. “Sam, the kid--Peter, you should have seen him climb those riggings, Shellhead, it sure was something--all of them, really, they were--are--good people. I hope they made it. I think I’ll just...think that they did. Why not, right? I made it, and that should have been impossible, so why not believe the same about them?”

Shellhead nodded firmly in agreement, then pointed at his rock-and-shell ship, then at Steve, then at the little shell that was floating insistently back towards the sand as the tide pushed it ashore. He turned a questioning look to Steve, head canted to the side and brows drawn together. 

“Why did I stay behind on the ship?” Steve guessed. Shellhead nodded again, giving him a questioning look. “The storm was so bad, someone had to keep her steady while they lowered the dinghy or else she’d have bashed right into it in those waves. Since I was the one who sort of ended up giving the abandon ship order, I figured that ought to be me.”

Shellhead’s mouth twisted up in confusion, and he pointed at the space above his head, making a vaguely hat-like shape with his hands.

“The Captain? Well…,” Steve began, “Captain Zemo, he didn’t want to give the order to abandon ship on account of losing out on his commission if we lost the cargo, and things were--they were bad. You saw the storm.” Shellhead nodded, scowling disapprovingly and crossing his arms and two tentacles over his chest, apparently at Zemo’s greed or cowardice or whatever it was. He seemed to take it as something of a personal affront, Steve thought with a small smile at the show of solidarity. 

“Actually, Zemo didn’t want to make a decision at all, he wanted to sit in his cabin and drink and pray, or whatever it was he was doing there,” Steve told him. “I kind of dragged him out and then, ah, punched him. When he wouldn’t agree it was time. Not like he was going to ever volunteer to go down with the ship, anyway. Technically, that was probably a mutiny, which is a capital crime, you know, so…might as well stay onboard,” Steve shrugged, then flattened his mouth and looked towards the tidal pool and the wall of rocks that had been among the first things he had seen when he opened his eyes here, miraculously alive, all thanks to Shellhead. “I wasn’t really thinking about it when I did it, to tell you the truth. I was just...mad, I guess. Frustrated. Scared. We all thought we were going to die, anyway, but if there was a chance, any kind of chance…I had to give that to them. They deserved at least that much.”

Shellhead hummed and bumped Steve’s shoulder with his own. One tentacle bopped him on the back of the head, earning a laugh. Shellhead was giving him a familiar look that called Steve’s sense of self-preservation into question. 

“Don’t you start giving me grief for stupid heroics. That position is already filled, I’ll have you know, by one James Buchanan Barnes, named after the Archbishop, not that terrible President of ours, as he himself would tell you if he were to be here.”

Shellhead sniggered, almost as if in agreement on Bucky’s political judgment, then flicked one of his tentacles around Steve’s shoulders, coiling it around Steve’s upper arm. He squeezed lightly in what was basically Shellhead’s version of a hug, or at least Steve assumed that’s what it was. It was strange, sure, but he had gotten rather used to the creature’s tactileness. Steve could feel the small suckers moving deftly against his skin, even through the thin remains of his shirt. Not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all, really, just odd. Shellhead was surprisingly warm, and the small, raspy discs that moved over his skin felt a bit like someone’s mouth on him, or what he imagined it would feel like, anyway. Like, well...like kisses, he supposed was the best thing his mind could come up with. Small, light, feathery kisses. Just strange ones. Or, well, he thought they were strange ones. Different from the light pecks on the cheek and head his Ma used to give him, anyway. 

He knew well enough that those appendages were anything but light and feathery, though. They could grip incredibly tightly when Shellhead wanted to. There had been bruises on his arm to prove that much when Shellhead rescued him, and Steve had seen him lift rocks and pieces of wrecked hulls that became Steve’s cabin from the water with seemingly little strain. But, whenever the creature’s tentacles brushed over Steve now, it was always with gentleness. Steve could admit to himself at least that he rather liked it. Just having someone to touch after months here, that was nice. He hadn’t realized how much he would miss that kind of contact, since it wasn’t exactly something he’d had in his life to miss, but he wasn’t going to pretend it wasn’t welcomed. 

“I guess for a little bit there, I was basically the ship’s Captain,” Steve said. “Captain goes down with the ship, right?” Shellhead snorted disagreeably and pounded a tentacle against the sand. “I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t,” he insisted when Shellhead shot him a skeptical look. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly against the idea, but I didn’t  _ want _ it. There’s a difference.” Shellhead made a rasping growl that Steve had learned was his signal for ‘Steve Rogers, you are full of shit.’ 

“I was glad to wake up here, wasn’t I?” Steve reminded him. Next to him, Shellhead hummed again, chittering lightly, which Steve took for grudging agreement. “I still am glad you saved me, Shellhead,” he added, nudging at the creature’s shoulder. “My hero,” Steve teased, smiling at him. To his surprise, Shellhead actually blushed a bit at that and looked away, though his tentacles swirled around him in an undulating mass, which Steve knew meant he was pleased. 

Steve picked up one of the rocks and tossed it against the far wall of rocks, making it splash back into the water with a soft plunk. Shellhead did the same, but used one of his tentacles to throw it, the force of that causing the rock to bounce much further back, closer to where they sat. Unlike the attempt at chess, it was a useless, nonsense game, but it passed the time, and Steve rather enjoyed spending idle hours in here just chatting and tossing rocks with Shellhead. Once, he’d gotten one to bounce off one rock onto one of the rocks that stood in the pool and then into the water, and Shellhead had been so delighted by that, Steve started coming up with more and more elaborate ways of getting the rocks into the water. Shellhead trilled a bit, encouraging either Steve’s comment or his rock throwing, Steve wasn’t sure. 

“Did I tell you that they called me Cap on the ship, because somehow--I guess probably I said something to Sam, I don’t know--but, they all knew I’d been a Captain in the War. Kind of a joke, calling me that, I guess, having a bit of fun at the landlubber,” Steve said. “It wasn’t even a real commission. Back in the War, I mean. I was just a volunteer, not part of the regular army, though they put me in charge of my own company. It was a battlefield promotion, mainly because everyone else was dead. Fredericksburg,” he added, as if that name would mean anything to Shellhead, though the creature’s eyes were solemn and filled with concern. Maybe Shellhead understood enough, Steve supposed. 

“I was good at it,” Steve said after one of his rocks bounced off two rocks and into the water. “Being a soldier. I was good at that. I don’t know what that says about me sometimes, how good I was at it. Not good enough to realize that my best friend wasn’t dead, but stuck in that Confederate hellhole, though. Not good enough for that.” Steve sighed and shook his head. In a way, it felt good to say it outloud. To acknowledge it instead of letting it fester somewhere deep inside. 

Shellhead made a rough noise that was sort of scraped out of his throat. An objection, Steve knew. He followed it with a soft, humming noise and stroked one of his tentacles down the back of Steve’s head and down his spine, patting lightly in a soothing motion. 

“Think I’m being too hard on myself, huh?” Steve said. He patted Shellhead’s hand, then huffed out a breath of air. “You and Natasha would get along.” Strangely, he meant that. Nat probably would find all of this incredibly fascinating. Not that even she would believe Steve if he tried to explain. She would probably think he found some strange plant down here and got himself well and truly blinkered. 

“We were after these supply wagons,” Steve began, his mind instantly filled with the familiar images that never seemed far enough away to actually have to recall. They were always there, it seemed. “Not for the supplies themselves, but because someone up high got word that Arnim Zola, the Confederacy’s Chief Scientist, was being transported along with the convoy. Apparently, he came up with a plot to spread yellow fever to Union troops through the sutlers using diseased clothing he got from the outbreak in Bermuda a while back,” Steve recounted, shaking his head at the memory. Shellhead made a soft, gasping sound, then clucked his throat disapprovingly and slapped his tentacle against the sand again. 

“I know, right? Who fights a war with disease?” Steve replied, appreciating the creature’s fit of outrage. “Anyway, Grant wanted Zola pretty badly, not just because that was beyond the pale, but because it came far too close to working, and he was desperate to know if there were more plans like that. So we went,” Steve recalled. 

He could feel his heart pounding at the memory, his back stiffening, and the raging echo in his ears building behind it. Shellhead wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders and shook him a bit, then reached up a hand to cup his cheek, turning Steve’s face towards him. His eyes were warm and soft and full of...something. Sympathy. Kindness. Understanding. Forgiveness that Steve wasn’t sure he deserved, but desperately craved nonetheless. Some combination of all of that. Shellhead slowly shook his head and rubbed his thumb across Steve’s cheek, then dropped his hand and turned away, biting his lip. Finally, he looked back at Steve, his gaze wide and attentive, without any trace of judgment, and he hummed again, rubbing at Steve’s back with one of his tentacles in a circular motion that felt like a show of support as much as anything. 

“They’d been tipped off, it turned out, and we ended up in a much bigger fight than any of us had anticipated, but we got Zola. We got Zola, and Bucky--I saw him get shot. I saw him go down, pinned under one of the wagons, and there were Confederate soldiers swarming all around. If we had any chance at getting Zola back behind our lines, we had to get out of there. I thought he was dead, Shellhead. I was sure of it. In that moment, I was sure of it,” Steve said, hearing his voice crack on the last. His eyes stung, and he swiped at them, sucking in a bracing breath. 

Had he been sure of it? Or had he  _ wanted  _ to be sure of it? Told himself that he was sure so he didn’t have to think about any other option. So he didn’t have to make the choice, Bucky or the mission? He supposed he would always ask himself that question. That was the essence of regret, that gnawing uncertainty that a different choice might have mattered. Shellhead made a tsking sound, his throat clicking a bit, which Steve assumed was some version of the same ‘it’s not your fault, Steve,’ speech Natasha often gave. Still, he was absurdly grateful for it, even from Shellhead. 

Maybe it was having watched the lifeboat disappear into the waves and an unknown fate, but Steve found himself able to look back on the whole thing with Zola and, at least for a moment, see the beginnings of a way to forgive himself. Bucky had known the risks, they all had, and he, like Steve, had volunteered for the mission. Because they believed it was worth it. Because it meant something. Whatever happened, it hadn’t been for nothing or for the promise of some meager payday from a company that didn’t care about them. They put their lives on the line for something that mattered. And in the end...Bucky was alive. He was back with Natasha, who loved him fiercely. He had a chance. It was a long road back, but he had a chance. Sitting here on this island, with little prospect of rescue and no assurance that the others had made it, Steve could better appreciate that for what it was. 

“He ended up in Andersonville until that place finally got cleared out sometime after the end of the War. It...changed him, Shellhead. Sometimes, I can see the man he was before, and sometimes, it’s like he is an entirely different person. Violent, raging, full of hate, towards me, towards his wife, Natasha, towards anyone who cares about him. I didn’t know what to do, and it almost seemed like my presence made it worse. I’m honestly not sure if that was true or if I told myself that was true as an excuse to get away,” Steve finished with a sigh, tossing another rock that managed one bounce before it sank into the tidal pool. 

Shellhead gave Steve’s shoulder another squeeze, shaking him a little, and Steve felt himself leaning in, as if drawn by some unseen force. Swirling tentacles wrapped around him like some kind of cocooning embrace, and he lay his head on Shellhead’s shoulder while the tentacles stroked and petted and the creature made soft, tutting noises through its gills and throat. It took him a moment to recognize that the wretched, wracking sobs that echoed through the small cave were coming from him, and then, it was as if someone had taken a tourniquet off that he hadn’t known was there. 

Pain, wondrous and bright, burst in his chest, but it was a strangely good pain. A release, he supposed, and something else quickening back through his veins. Just saying it out loud, acknowledging all the uncertainties, the regrets, the guilt...he felt lighter and worn out at the same time. Swiping his hand over his eyes, he pulled back and gazed at Shellhead, who was watching him with an oddly tender expression, and brushing his hand through Steve’s hair at his temple. He stopped when Steve glanced up, and looked a bit embarrassed at being caught at it, though Steve hadn’t even realized he was doing until he stopped, and, well, Steve didn’t really mind the gesture. 

“Sorry,” Steve sniffed, sitting back and swiping a hand over his face. Shellhead’s throat clicked, and he shook his head with an urgent force, brow pulling together into a frown. “Didn’t know I was going to say all that.” 

Steve blotted the tattered hem of his shirt against his cheeks, then flattened his mouth and looked over at Shellhead again. A chance. So many people didn’t get even that much. It wasn’t fair. There was no sense to be made of it, but he had been given a second chance, and here he was, thumbing his nose at it. A chance at a life, even if it wasn’t perfect. Even if it was desperately hard. Even if it was harder, sometimes, than the alternative, there was value there. There were moments of happiness to be had there, in between all the muck. It looked a lot more appealing from this side of things, Steve supposed. 

The creature was watching him with a sad, expectant look, like he almost knew what Steve was going to say and dreaded it, though Steve supposed he was probably projecting his own feelings onto his friend as much as anything. 

“I want to go back, Shellhead,” Steve said. His throat was raw, working around the words, and in a way, they were like the release of admitting maybe it wasn’t entirely his fault, what happened to Bucky. Painful, but true, and requiring him to get back to a life he had struggled to find after the War. “I want to see my friends again, walk through the city when it’s snowing, maybe try my hand at that drawing thing, I don’t know. Maybe...maybe find someone who...who I get along with half as well as you,” Steve said, trying for teasing as he nudged a bit at Shellhead’s shoulder, but he didn’t think he quite hit the right tone. He dropped his gaze down to the water, then raised his eyes back to Shellhead. “But, I can’t stay here. I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t know how, and, probably, I’ll fail, but I can’t stay here.” 

Shellhead’s eyes darted away, then down, and his tentacles recoiled, then stilled, as he withdrew his hand from Steve’s shoulder. Finally, he looked back at Steve and nodded, once, a shadow of something like longing passing over his features before it was gone. 

“I suppose you knew that was coming before I did, huh?” Steve said. Shellhead made no reply, just looked down at his lap where his hands were bunched over his mass of tentacles. “Will you help?” Steve asked carefully. As difficult as the task seemed, without Shellhead, Steve knew that escape from here was all but impossible. Shellhead was still for a long moment, gazing silently at the wall of rocks that let in the tide. Finally, he nodded once, glancing quickly at Steve with a flat smile that didn’t reach his expressive eyes, and then he was sliding away, into the tidal pool. 

“You’re leaving?” Steve called out, watching the creature dip beneath the surface. He got to his feet and scanned the water for the creature, catching a flash of red just near the wall of rocks at the front of the cave. There was a gap in the rocks somewhere under the water, Steve knew, allowing Shellhead to slip in and out with ease, but the creature paused for a moment and turned back to look at Steve. It was like this that he had first seen Shellhead, Steve realized with a pang of something like regret. 

“Shellhead,” Steve said, his voice pleading. “Wait. Please. Please, just listen, I---” he paused, watching Shellhead’s face contort before he quickly turned away. “I’d take you with me, if I could. I don’t have the first idea how that would work, but I’d try, if I could. But, there’s no place for you there. People wouldn’t--they wouldn’t understand you. You’d be in danger. I think you know that,” Steve said, feeling his stomach tug at the words with a deep-seated melancholy. 

It was strange to say, but if he somehow did make it off this island and back to his life, he would genuinely miss Shellhead and this unusual partnership they had created here more than he ever thought possible. As ironic as it seemed, little else in his life had ever been quite as easy as these past few months, almost like living in some kind of dreamscape, and as much as Steve knew it couldn’t continue forever, he  _ would _ miss it. And his friend. 

“I’ll miss you something fierce, Shellhead. But...I have to try,” Steve said. “I hope you can understand that.”

Shellhead rolled his jaw together into a frown, then puffed out a huff of air. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and for a moment, Steve had the absurd thought that this was exactly what would happen, but then he clutched at his pendant instead, nodded once and disappeared beneath the water. 

By the time Steve made it up to the lean-to that had slowly become a cabin of sorts, he could smell his dinner of clams he had put to baking over a low fire before going to play their afternoon game of chess. A few tanias roasted next to the clams, their taste not unlike the potatoes he had grown up on, and a mango would be dessert. All in all, he ate better here than back home, Steve thought with a small smile. 

He reached for a plate and cup, both of fine bone china, though with different designs and bearing different marks. Like the other odd assortment of items that littered his cabin, they had been brought by Shellhead from some shipwreck on the bottom of the sea or swiped from some storage larder hidden on one of the many islands. 

So far, Steve had been the recipient of, among other things, an ornate candlestick, sans candle, of course, a jewelry box with a string of pearls still inside, multiple cups and plates, eating utensils, several types of tools, a curved cutlass that was too worn down to cut anything other than air, though it had a surprisingly finely-wrought grip, ceramic bowls, a razor in nearly perfect condition, religious relics and crucifixes, a barnacle-encrusted shield that looked like something a Conquistador might have carried, a small mirrored compact, part of a fishing net that Steve had used with some success, an ivory pipe shaped like a reclining woman, a small chest of gold coins that made Steve richer than he had ever been in his life, and a lockbox that included several books and what seemed like the manifests, log books and cargo lists to a number of Stark Trading Company ships, though the lockbox hadn’t exactly lived up to its claim of being watertight and those items were currently drying in the breeze where they hung from the various trees and bushes. 

As he ate his supper, he picked carefully through one of the books that was largely dry and stiff enough to page through. It was a rather dry tome about medicinal herbs and plants of South America, but it was something. Still, it was something to read, and better than his own thoughts at the moment. 

As night started to fall, he walked back down to the sea to rinse his dishes and see if Shellhead had returned, perhaps to lounge amongst his favorite grouping of rocks, but Steve couldn’t see him anywhere and when he called out, there was no telltale splash in return. He sighed and wrapped his arms around his middle. There wasn’t anything for it. He couldn’t stay here forever. Even Shellhead himself seemed to understand that. Or, Steve hoped he did, anyway.

That didn’t mean leaving was going to be easy, and not just because the journey itself was a dangerous one. Shellhead was...extraordinary. Special. Like no one else he would ever meet. And Steve was, against all odds, surprisingly happy here. Safe. Cared for. Doted on, if you got down to it, he thought with a wry smile, glancing over his shoulder at the small shanty he had been calling home. Even when a storm rolled through and battered the island, soaking him to the bone, he had known that Shellhead wouldn’t let anything happen to him. It was comforting to have someone by his side like that, and yes, he could admit that after years of having to fend for himself followed by years of having the fate of other men in his hands, it was nice to wake each day with only curiosity for what it might bring, instead of worry. There was a certain freedom to this place, this life, that he would miss quite a bit, he realized, and most of that was due to Shellhead. 

Slowly, Steve turned from the water and walked back up to his cabin and climbed into the hammock that was now strung up between two trees, one of Shellhead’s more useful finds. Steve had been able to re-knot most of it where it had frayed, though there was a hole at one end where his feet stuck out. Still, it was better than the ground. It swayed gently with the breeze that swept across the island. Stars canopied out through the spiky fronds above him. It really was beautiful here, he thought, then thought of Shellhead, leaning against the rocks with the sun shining down on him. Very beautiful. 

He shifted in the hammock, feeling a rush of heat fire in his belly, followed by the usual twist of guilt and shame curdling in his stomach along with resignation. It was hardly the first time he had done this, after all. Oh, he knew it was wrong in any number of ways, not that his body seemed to want to listen to his protestations. He knew what the Church said about self-gratification, and he knew what the Church said about men having feelings for men, though he wasn’t quite sure where the Church doctrine came down on fantasizing about fantastically impossible sea creatures. He could suss out that it probably wasn’t exactly good, though, Steve thought with a grimace. 

Yet, when he had been looking for a bit of relief all those weeks ago, he couldn’t deny that it had been Shellhead’s image that popped into his mind as he came with blinding speed, and it seemed to have done something to him, letting such a forbidden thought in. As if once he acquiesced to that one, small thing, the floodgates opened, and he soon found himself unable to think of anything else. The old images that haunted sweat-soaked dreams and hushed, furtive under the cover of darkness refused to come to mind, no matter how hard he tried to steer his thoughts to those more mundane, if still sinful, thoughts. 

He stretched, arching his back a little and making the hammock rock, then sighed heavily. He could feel the familiar pressure building low in his gut, the heat, the want, all curling together into some kind of staccato beat that thrummed down the length of his cock. 

It was wrong. Of course, it was wrong. He knew that. Everything he had ever wanted was wrong, though, so how was this all that different? Immoral. Perverted. Unnatural. Disgusting. He had heard it all over the years, particularly when he was young and sickly and apparently had some kind of look about him that drew those kinds of jeers. He remembered praying, quite fervently, but nothing much changed except he grew and stopped coughing every time he ran down the block and the punches he threw packed a lot more force behind them. 

And this--this probably confirmed it, didn’t it? That something was wrong with him. Thinking about Shellhead and doing, well,  _ this _ , he admitted to himself even as he pulled his cock out, shuddering at the sudden friction as he took himself in hand. This had to mean there was something depraved about him, just like they always said. But he couldn’t ignore the way his cock stiffened just thinking about Shellhead, throbbing with a pulsating need to be touched. To find a release of the ever-building pressure. 

It was wrong, God, it had to be, didn’t it? Shellhead was--whatever he was. Not human. Some kind of creature, some  _ animal _ , for Christ’s sake, Steve thought viciously, though his mind recoiled at the idea of thinking about Shellhead like that. He was so much more than just some animal, and somehow, Steve’s mind had gotten it all twisted up with those deviant desires he promised Father Flannery he would never act upon. Still, still, he knew it was wrong, he  _ knew _ that, and what did that say about Steve, that he could even contemplate such a thing, let alone want it this badly? 

But, Steve couldn’t seem to help himself. To his body, anyway, it didn’t feel wrong, and that was enough, apparently, to overcome whatever qualms his mind had about it. For years, shadowed, nearly faceless figures had flitted through his mind, and now, all he could seem to conjure were warm, brown eyes, dark hair, skin tanned by the sun and roughened by hard work, a broad, muscular chest, a roguish smile framed by a carefully manicured goatee, and firm hands, touching him, holding him. Shellhead smiling at him. Teasing him. Offering such kindness and understanding. The strength there, the power, the way he moved, how easy it would be for him to hold Steve down, to make him just  _ take _ it...he groaned, low and deep, a hot rush of shame joining the heady pressure filling his cock as fluid leaked out the tip. 

Vague images flitted through his mind. Things he refused to acknowledge, even in his deepest thoughts. He wasn’t even sure what he was thinking. Or, he did know, but he refused to quite let his purient thoughts stray that far. To even think such a thing, it was the worst kind of deviance, wasn’t it? He had always been able to control his wayward thoughts before, never acted on them, and yet here he was, cock in hand, thinking about--he couldn’t even quite let himself think it, but the idea of it stayed, refusing to be brushed aside, not while his body reacted with feverish intensity to the mere suggestion. 

Maybe it was because Shellhead was the only other being here or maybe it was Steve’s own unnatural desires making themselves known after being buried for years, he didn’t know, but for a while now, his fantasies had been filled with the same images. Tonight, it almost seemed more intense, his need for this release. He brought his hand up and spit into it, twice, slickening it as best he could, then wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked once, hard, from base to tip, working his thumb over the head, just like he liked it. 

Closing his eyes, he let out a low moan as he spread the fluid around, slickening his shaft, and worked his cock through his hand, the harsh, warm friction doing its job as he stroked. Images started to play across the backs of his eyelids like photographs. Shellhead sunning himself on the rocks, the pendant dangling in the center of his chest, his stomach rippling with hard-packed muscle. Shellhead smiling at him. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The rough scrape of his hands when he touched Steve. The strange, velvety feel of his tentacles running over Steve’s skin, the small discs puckering along almost like a trail of kisses, or at least what Steve imagined such a thing felt like. 

It didn’t take long. A few more hard strokes, a tug at his balls and twist of his wrist, and Steve came into his hand, his body quaking. Wrung out, his mind blessedly blank for a few moments, he lay there, letting his breathing return to normal. Finally, he got up and used the water in one of the ceramic bowls to rinse off. He turned to look out towards the sea, but couldn’t see anything from here except a seemingly endless swath of darkness, split only by the light of the moon. 

Curling up in his hammock, Steve waited for the usual rush of self-recrimination and humiliation to hit him, but instead, all he could think about was the way Shellhead had looked at him after he announced his determination to leave, and how easily his friend had given his promise of assistance, even though Steve knew that would likely mean a return to a solitary existence for the creature. He sighed, twisted around, trying to get comfortable in the hammock, but it was long, fitful hours before he finally drifted off into a restless, dream-filled sleep. 

He woke up gasping, choking on a scream lodged in his throat, and reaching for some vestige of a dream before the world righted itself into reality. Shaking, he swung out of the hammock and pushed himself to his feet. The dream was already slipping away, leaving a disconcerting sense of wrongness in its wake, but that dissipated almost instantly once he was finally fully awake. The sun was already well up, he noted, and hurried to make his way down to the shoreline. 

Steve hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he saw the familiar shape out on the sand by the small grouping of rocks. Grinning with relief as much as anything, Steve raised his hand and called out to the figure twirling its tentacles in graceful motions while he soaked up the sun’s morning rays. 

“Morning, Shellhead!” Steve said as he approached. 

Shellhead glanced at him, then smiled, soft and welcoming and chittered at him in greeting, far more animated than usual, Steve noticed. He made a come-here motion at Steve with his hand and two tentacles, then slipped off the sand and into the water. He appeared a moment later closer to Steve, then ducked under again, and popped up some distance away where he bobbed in the waves, as if waiting. Frowning a bit, Steve followed, and sure enough, Shellhead kept disappearing and reappearing until Steve was nearly to the far end of the island where their cave was located. 

“Still bitter about yesterday’s draw?” Steve teased, then frowned as Shellhead motioned him on. 

Shellhead didn’t duck inside the cave, as Steve expected, but instead swam around it to the other side. From his vantage, Steve couldn’t see where his friend had surfaced, so he made his way around the stand of rocks, then stopped short in shock, mouth dropping with surprise. 

A boat. 

There was a boat nestled there on the beach. Not a large boat, just a small tender, barely big enough for a handful of men, but still sturdy by the looks of it. There were some obvious places that needed repair, but all in all, it was miraculously well preserved. It was covered in mud, which explained its overall good condition. God only knew where Shellhead had found it, but here it was. There were even two mismatched oars laying at crosshairs inside of it. 

Next to the boat, Shellhead spread his arms wide, tentacles writhing beneath him, and pounded a few of them on the top of the water making exuberant splashing noises. He grinned proudly and hummed in that happy, warbling way of his, clearly exhilarated by his find. Though, when Steve managed to tear his eyes from the boat long enough to glance over, he caught Shellhead looking quickly away, an expression of pained resoluteness that Steve had seen on many a man during the War crossing his features for half a second before he seemed to force his smile back into place. 

Steve dropped his gaze down to his feet for a moment, his jaw tightening as his brow drew together. For him, this boat was a chance. A real chance. At a life, or something like it.  _ Hope _ . For Shellhead, this was...Steve didn’t know what it was, but it was something Steve understood Shellhead was doing for him even though it wasn’t what the creature wanted. A sacrifice, then. Steve’s happiness in exchange for his own. 

Steve didn’t quite know what to do with that. It was a rare enough thing back in the real world. He certainly wouldn’t have expected to find such friendship here, like this, and yet, it didn’t truly surprise him. Shellhead was like that. Were he a man, Steve would call him a good man, and he supposed at some point, it had stopped mattering so much that Shellhead wasn’t a man, he thought, somewhat uncomfortably remembering the night’s activities. Not that any of that mattered. Thank God, Shellhead nor anyone else would ever know of...that. 

Still, whatever he was, Shellhead was  _ good _ . Really and truly good. Steve would stake his life on that, and not that he needed more proof, but if he did, the boat certainly cemented that perception. Steve owed him his life in so many ways, and yet, he never asked anything of Steve in return. Just gave and gave, and even now, even when this would mean a return to a life of solitude he clearly did not want, Shellhead still offered this chance to Steve. It was humbling, really, is what it was, Steve thought to himself. 

“This is amazing, Shellhead. Thank you,” Steve said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. He walked over and patted a hand on the prow. He looked down at it, then back up at Shellhead, who hovered near the water’s edge. “Think we can make her seaworthy again?” Steve asked. 

Shellhead sniffed with disdain and nodded once, as if such a thing was a simple task, and curled his lips into a moue of condescension. It was, in Steve’s opinion, rather adorable on him, though he quickly pushed that thought aside. 

Instead, Steve walked over to where Shellhead floated and grasped his shoulders, then wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. The creature stiffened in the embrace, its tentacles splashing beneath them. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered again next to Shellhead’s ear. “Thank you for this.” 

Steve felt the moment of surrender when Shellhead finally allowed himself to return the embrace, sagging against Steve with a low, keening sound. He leaned into Steve’s chest and buried his head into the curve of Steve’s neck. His hands snaked around Steve’s back and locked there, holding Steve close. He smelled like the sun and sea and the briney tang of salt, Steve noticed, a not unpleasant combination. Steve could see flecks of sand on his shoulders and back, and the way his skin gleamed as it morphed into the bright red and gold at his lower back. His hair was wet and matted against Steve’s cheek, his beard rough and scraping along Steve’s neck. Steve had the sense of strength and power churning as two of Shellhead’s tentacles swarmed around his legs and up his back. 

He was beautiful, truly, Steve thought, and at least for as long as he had left here, he was going to stop tormenting himself for whatever it was he felt for Shellhead. If this was wrong, then he had no idea anymore what was right. Here, with Shellhead, like this, he felt safe and...cared for. Deeply cared for. That was the only way to put it. He felt safe and cared for, and then Shellhead was peeling himself away, and Steve had time to think, this is what I dreamed, and then the moment was gone. 

Shellhead chortled lowly, shaking his head, and ducked away quickly, though Steve noticed a flush staining the creature’s tanned cheeks. He started chittering animatedly, pointed and motioned with increasing excitement as he gestured at various parts of the boat that needed repair, though there was a note of effort in his movements that hadn’t been there before, Steve noticed. Steve knew enough about diversionary tactics to recognize one when he saw it. 

“Why are you so good to me, Shellhead? Why me?” Steve heard himself ask. 

He hadn’t meant to ask, and certainly not quite so baldly as that, but he desperately wanted an answer. None of this made sense, he had long ago accepted that much, but Shellhead’s regard for him made the least sense of all. At least to Steve. Oh, he knew Shellhead was capable of deep emotions, of that he was certain, even if perhaps they differed from what a human could feel, but none of that explained a kindness this deep, to willingly consign himself to a life as a recluse so easily. 

Shellhead paused, mid-motion, his face going carefully blank. He put his hands on the sides of the boat and looked down at the place where his fingers gripped the edge for a long moment before pulling his gaze back to Steve. His eyes were sharp and intent as they bored into Steve. Steve could feel his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. There was something there, in Shellhead’s eyes, that made Steve’s insides go liquid. He suddenly felt boneless, light-headed, overheated, like he had been in the sun too long. It was as if he was pinned here, a bug on a wall, unable to move under the intensity of Shellhead’s gaze. He wanted to say that it was so incredibly human-like, that look, except that no one had ever looked at Steve quite like that before. He felt like he was being seen, truly seen, all the layers stripped away. It was heady, wondrous, like all the air in the world was suddenly gone. He had time to think that he should say something, and then the moment was gone, and Steve was left blinking at his friend, his heart slowly returning to normal and the air catching in his chest once he remembered to breathe.

Steve watched the creature’s throat work, and his own breath caught as his chest tightened almost painfully. Shellhead turned and shuffled to the end of the boat, then cleared his throat and went back to pointing and chattering at it in those odd, huffing sounds he could make, though he lacked his earlier enthusiasm. 

Steve watched him and wondered what kind of answer he had just gotten. 


	5. Chapter 5

Shellhead hammered one of the new boards into place on the inner hull of the boat while Steve watched in fascination, his arms draped over the side. The small skiff was up on stilts at the moment, built from a few of the taller rocks and the few sturdy sticks Steve had been able to find on the island. Over the past month or so, they had patched up the boat as best as they could manage, given the tools and materials they had on hand or that Shellhead was able to scrounge. 

Steve’s hammock and the fibers he had managed to shave off far too many coconuts became the caulking to fit in the seams between the planks where the original cord had rotted. Shellhead had shown him how to boil down a cache of tropical nuts he brought back one day into a thick paste that they mixed with the fibers to get them to stick between the planks. It wasn’t the most backbreaking work Steve had done in his life, but it wasn’t easy, that was certain. Long, hot days under the scorching sun, slowly getting the small boat into shape with only rudimentary tools stretched out in Steve’s mind, but here they were, nearing the final stages. 

Actually, Steve had rather enjoyed the hard days’ work putting the boat to rights. Shellhead was, as always, good company, but fixing the boat seemed to energize him in ways Steve wouldn’t have expected. He drew complicated designs in the sand for Steve to see what he planned when gesturing couldn’t quite communicate it and spent probably far too much time patiently taking Steve through the process of getting the boat seaworthy again. How Shellhead knew that much about shipwork escaped Steve, and Shellhead wasn’t able to answer his questions to any degree of satisfaction, though Steve supposed the creature had spent enough time studying the wrecks and ships that passed through these waters to have some knowledge of what would work. Still, it was impressive to watch him work, Steve could freely admit, and often did, earning pleased, if somewhat bashful, smiles from Shellhead in the process. Which...definitely didn’t have anything to do with how often Steve found himself complimenting his friend. Nope, nothing at all to do with it, he thought with a sigh as he watched Shellhead bang the plank into place, then shove some of the sticky, fibrous cording into place in the seam. 

“You’ve done a great job with her, Shellhead,” Steve said. Shellhead shrugged, but tossed him a quick smile over his shoulder. “Who knew you could make caulk out of nuts and stuff? I thought you had to have pine tar,” Steve said. “How’d you get to know so much about boats?” Another shrug, though this time, Shellhead didn’t turn around. “Suppose you see a lot out here, huh? My Ma used to say that patched up was stronger than new. At least, that’s what she told me about my clothes, anyway. Think the same’s true for boats?”

Shellhead put his hands on his hips and seemed to give the boat a long, considering look, then nodded and pounded at one side with one of his tentacles, which Steve assumed meant he agreed the little boat was sturdy enough. 

“I’m going to take your pump to the patent office and retire,” Steve said with a grin as he poked at the device, only to earn a light slap at his hand from one of Shellhead’s tentacles, even though Shellhead hadn’t seemed to turn around to see what Steve was doing. “I’m half serious,” Steve laughed. “It’s brilliant.” Shellhead did look at him then, beaming brightly before quickly turning back to his task. “‘Course, they’d probably ask me to explain it and realize I had no idea what I was talking about. Still, it’s pretty amazing, Shellhead. I wish we could just take it back and show people, tell them you made it, and maybe they’d see you’re kinda useful on occasion. When you’re not lazing around in the sun.”

Shellhead gave him a narrow-eyed look, then broke into a grin that matched Steve’s own. He shook the hammer in Steve’s direction, pursing his lips and letting out a low series of wet, gasping hitches that Steve knew was his version of a chuckle before going back to what he was working on. The boat wasn’t going to be perfectly watertight, not with what they had on hand for repairs, but Shellhead came up with an ingenious design for a bilge pump to help get rid of the excess water using just a cylinder, piston and a few valves that Steve, after several failed attempts, had painstakingly crafted according to Shellhead’s very precise specifications from the pieces of wood Shellhead was able to scavenge. 

Shellhead also insisted on a sail, though they currently had a mast and rigging, but no actual sail since while Shellhead seemed able to come up with any number of unusual objects from the deep, sailcloth didn’t exactly hold up to seawater. One of Steve’s other tasks had been to weave together the palm fronds into long plaits until the mat finally resembled a sail. He was almost done, and had the tired hands to show for it, but he actually thought it might work when the winds weren’t too strong and would give him a break from rowing. 

She wasn’t much to look at, their little boat, and it was far more likely that this gambit would end in catastrophe instead of success, but every time he looked at the boat, Steve felt a surge of hope bloom warm in his chest. The problem was, every time he felt that, it was followed almost immediately by a bittersweet pang of...not regret, he wouldn’t call it that, exactly, but a melancholy, he supposed. 

“Wish I had some paint,” Steve mused. “I’d paint you on her bow like one of those mermaids they carve for the figurehead. What?” Steve said, pulling a blinking, innocent look when Shellhead screwed his face up in disdain. “Bet you’d be good luck,” Steve added, patting the interior of the little ship. 

Shellhead snorted in clear disagreement with that assessment, but he seemed rather pleased nonetheless, Steve thought, though he wasn’t sure if it was the notion of adorning the boat that Shellhead liked or the teasing, which he always seemed to enjoy. It had been a long time since Steve had just been able to tease someone, and never quite like this, he could admit. He’d never been especially good at talking to people unless he really had something to say, but the banter came easily with Shellhead for whatever reason. 

Steve sighed as he watched Shellhead work on the plank. Leaving here meant leaving Shellhead, and that loss loomed far larger than he ever could have imagined. This past month had been filled with long days working together on repairing the boat, planning, watching Shellhead come up with these fantastical ideas for how to fix the various problems that kept cropping up, chatting about nothing important while Shellhead hummed happily or snickered at Steve in his strange way, and somehow ending up admitting to Shellhead far more than Steve ever intended. The War. Bucky. Peggy. Sam and Peter and the shenanigans they got up to on the ship and in port. Clint, who went back to his farm after the War and seemed completely fine, which Steve struggled to understand almost as much as he struggled to understand Bucky. Growing up poor and sickly. His Ma. Things he wanted to do, dreams he never really thought possible, but for some reason wanted to share, at least with Shellhead. 

In a word, the time Steve spent here had been  _ good _ . By all rights, it shouldn’t have been. This should have been a horrifying experience, being stuck here, on par with other terrors he had experienced in his life, but it was anything but that. It was good. He liked it here. He was happy here. And that was the problem. 

It was easy to talk to Shellhead, always had been once he got over his fright, but lately, it was like slipping on a well-worn jacket, familiar and comfortable, but exciting, too, because it meant--it meant something was going to happen, something he was just on the cusp of, but something good, Steve could feel it. Steve had always put the ease he felt down to Shellhead’s silence, and maybe that was part of it, but Shellhead almost always managed to make his feelings known just fine, no matter what subject they were on, so Steve didn’t think the creature’s lack of spoken language quite explained how much Steve looked forward to talking with his friend each day. 

There wasn’t anything for it, though. He couldn’t stay here, he knew that, and Shellhead couldn’t leave, no matter how many possible ways Steve’s mind thought up to make that happen or how often Steve teased his friend about putting a big bathtub in the apartment in Brooklyn he shared with Bucky and Natasha. It wasn’t safe for Shellhead to leave, for a lot of reasons, and Steve couldn’t be that selfish, to take his friend away from what amounted to Shellhead’s home just because Steve would miss him. There just wasn’t any way it could work. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though. Steve let out a ragged sigh and went back to watching Shellhead work. 

“Think that’ll work?” Steve asked, nodding at the repaired plank. It was a slightly different color than the majority of the boat, though other planks, pulled from ships Steve didn’t want to think about, made a sort of patchwork across the ship’s hull where they had tried to fix the worst of the rot. 

Shellhead nodded and pulled on the sail’s rigging with one of his tentacles. It went up and down, just like it was supposed to, though Steve wondered how well it would work with the fibrous sail he had made actually attached. Still, all put together and working like that, it was a sight to behold, Steve thought with a fond smile as he watched Shellhead check and re-check everything on the little boat. 

“Have to admit, Shellhead, strange as it sounds, I’ve enjoyed putting her to rights,” Steve said. “Even if she sinks as soon as we get her in the water--”

Shellhead snorted and swept his hands wide with a derisive look, as if to suggest Steve was a simpleton for thinking that would happen. 

“Not that she will, of course,” Steve quickly corrected. “Didn’t mean to insult your, ah, your nautical engineering, there, Shellhead,” Steve chuckled lowly, giving Shellhead an apologetic wave of his hand. “Just saying, it’s been...nice. Having something to work on like this. Bit of...bit of hope, I guess. I’m just...I’m...trying to say thank you. Again. Even if it doesn’t work--” Shellhead shot him an annoyed look. “Which it will, I’m sure,” Steve placated. “But, even if it doesn’t, it’s been--I’ve enjoyed it, is all I’m saying. You and me, fixing her up. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not--I know she’s gonna float,” Steve laughed. “And if not, you’ll just have to rescue me again and be stuck with me forever.” 

Shellhead glanced over at him, his mouth pulled tight, then hammered at the plank one last time, a little harder than strictly necessary, in Steve’s opinion, though he knew to keep his mouth shut about Shellhead’s methods. Shellhead tossed the hammer aside, then lay back, reclining in the boat with his hands behind his head and his tentacles spread out, prodding at various points. He was feeling for cracks, Steve knew, using those wonderfully sensitive suckers of his to find stress points they needed to shore up. He would do the same on the outer hull, a process Steve found rather fascinating to watch. 

“The two cargo lists,” Steve said, bringing the subject back to what they had been discussing earlier, namely, what Steve discovered, or thought he might have discovered, once the contents of the lockbox Shellhead had found finally dried. Shellhead perked up a bit, glancing over at Steve and humming lowly, almost like a growl. “I kept thinking to myself, why two for the same voyage? Had to be something on there they didn't want the government to know about, right? So, they do one for the custom house in New York or wherever the ship leaves from, and the real one, that's for whoever was investing in the scheme, 'cause whoever's doing it, they want to get paid all proper, of course, and for that, you need a manifest that could be compared to the ones kept at the ports down in whevever they were going. That’s what I’m thinking, anyway.” 

Shellhead nodded grimly, then scrubbed his hands over his face and looked at Steve. 

“The ones you found go back to before the War by a good number of years. I saw one from ‘52, I think, though the ink was smudged from the water. By then, you couldn’t bring slaves into the States,” Steve replied. Shellhead made a wide circle with his hands, then pointed at the bottom part with one of his tentacles. “True, the trade wasn’t illegal everywhere in the world, but…” he shook his head. “I just can’t figure on the Stark Trading Company being involved in any of that. I know, they wouldn’t have used their ships, most likely, but even if they found crews willing to risk that, I told you about Tony Stark. I’ve read almost all of his adventures, Shellhead, and he’s not like that, I’m telling you, he wouldn’t--” 

Shellhead slapped a hand on the bow of the ship, his tentacles coiling and writhing around, snapping at the hull in what Steve could now easily recognize as anger. 

“Really?  _ You‘re _ going to be a skeptic?” Steve asked, raising his eyebrow in question. Shellhead rolled his eyes, then huffed out his version of a low laugh and nodded his head back and forth in surrender. 

“Anyway,...maybe it wasn’t him,” Steve continued, his voice growing rushed and eager as thoughts whirled through his mind. “I know you can’t know someone just from reading about them, but...I just don’t believe he’d do something like that, Shellhead, I don’t. The man who wrote those adventures, he wouldn’t do something like that, I’m almost positive,” Steve said. Shellhead’s shoulders sagged, and he looked at Steve with a pained expression, then shook his head and swallowed, his throat bobbing with effort. “Look, I know it’s not like I actually knew him or anything, and maybe--maybe he didn’t even write them, or--or maybe he was real different in real life. Maybe all that stuff he wrote about, maybe it was all a front to hide something like this. That’s possible, I guess. Not like someone like me would’ve ever crossed paths with someone like him. I just...I don’t think he would’ve done this, I really don’t.”

Shellhead sat up, his eyes half-moons, his gaze soft, full of--of something. Steve would have called it, well... _ yearning _ on anyone else. He wasn’t sure what the look meant on Shellhead, but his expression seemed to carry such ache and longing, it made Steve’s mind stutter a bit trying to figure it out. Finally, Shellhead’s mouth flattened, and he looked down, wetting his lips with frustrated huff. One of his hands covered Steve’s where Steve gripped the edge of the boat and gave it a squeeze that felt somehow grateful. 

“Maybe it was someone else, someone in the company doing this while he was off exploring?” Steve suggested as Shellhead sat back, hands tapping at his chest around his necklace. “Someone taking advantage of him being away on his adventures, or, I don’t know, I mean--that could be it, right?” Steve argued. 

He didn’t know why it mattered to him so much that Stark himself hadn’t known about this, if he was even right about what the duplicate cargo lists meant, but it did. It mattered, for whatever silly, naive reason that made him want to believe in someone who wasn’t even alive anymore just because he had spent far too much of his time reading impossible tales and imagining a life of adventure. And, strangely, it seemed to matter to Shellhead, who got so worked up about it when Steve told him about it over breakfast that he swam away, not to return until near lunchtime, and even then, he had been uncharacteristically quiet. 

Shellhead glanced away at Steve’s suggestion, an odd, haunted expression crossing his face, then looked back over at Steve, his face dropping into an almost absurdly grateful look. He nodded, adding a host of other wet, chittering sounds to go with the motion that Steve took for strong agreement. 

“Right, so...Brazil was still in the trade. Cuba, too. To work the coffee and sugar cane plantations,” Steve recalled. “I remember Peggy talking about it a few times, how people thought it was over, but it really wasn’t. The slave trade from Africa stopped years ago, sure, but the plantation owners in the South were getting nervous at the numbers, especially with whispers brewing about war, and couldn’t get the prices they wanted at the markets in Mobile and Charleston anymore, anyway, so some of them got the idea to ship the slaves they didn’t need off to South America or other parts.”

Shellhead hummed disapprovingly and pursed his mouth into a frown, but watched Steve with a thoughtful, interested look. 

“It was  _ technically _ illegal. Can’t remember the name of the law, but it was,” Steve continued, recalling what Peggy had said about it, “but the government wasn’t exactly spending a bunch of resources trying to stop it. The British did, Peggy said, but the U.S. didn’t seem to care much about stopping slaves from being sold to Brazil when they couldn’t stop them from being sold between states. Maybe someone at the company saw a way to make some money on the side or something,” Steve said with a frown.

Shellhead sat up straight and hummed again. Not his usual happy humming sound, but low and undulating, almost like a hiss, Steve thought. He had a vise-like grip on the edge of the boat, his fingers digging into the planks so hard Steve thought for a moment that the wood was going to snap. He looked up at Steve and nodded, stiff-necked, his movements jerky and urgent and  _ wrong _ , in the way that Shellhead sometimes got whenever they touched on some subject that seemed to bother him in some manner that Steve couldn’t fathom. The creature grunted in obvious frustration and sat back in a heap, tentacles swirling and tapping at the boat as it rocked a bit on its struts. he looked at Steve with a flat grimace and crossed his arms, dropping his gaze down to his hands, which were curled into fists. 

“Hey, hey, now, it’s okay,” Steve assured him quickly. He reached over and grabbed Shellhead’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “This one of those things that makes you have one of your spells?” Steve asked. “I can stop talking about it, if you--”

Shellhead shook his head, almost violently, and looked at Steve with a pleading expression. “Don’t stop?” Steve asked. Shellhead shook his head. “Okay, but, if it bothers you…” he trailed off, watching as Shellhead slipped out of his grip and sagged against the bottom of the boat. He looked up at Steve with a determined look over a grim smile and waved his hand in a circular motion, indicating Steve should continue, so Steve sucked in a breath and pressed on. 

“So, ah, that’s what I’m thinking, anyway...Someone else had to be behind it. A--a conspiracy or something, going back years by the looks of those manifests. I just can’t believe Stark would have known about it. He would have put a stop to it, I know he would have. Hell, he was one of the earliest supporters of abolition,” Steve remembered. “There was a huge uproar when he left the Whigs and joined the Republicans. I wasn’t much paying attention to politics back then, but even I remember people talking about that, if only because he called Senator Stern a--a name they refused to print in the paper, and I thought that was...I mean, I agreed, in principle, with that assessment, though I only met the man once when he visited the Aqueduct.”

Shellhead shot him an inquisitive look and canted his head to the side. 

“He, uh, made some comments about all the Irish working on the Aqueduct, ‘cept he didn’t use that word for us,” Steve told him. “Anyway, if we’re right about what those manifests mean, I’d put money on Stark not knowing and someone else messing around with the books to cover it up, that’s all I’m saying. Not that it matters, really,” Steve sighed. “Even if I could get back and somehow report it to someone, they’re not going to do anything about it. The Stark Trading Company is too powerful, especially after everything it did during the War. Truth is, even if someone believed me, no one’s going to care enough to do anything about it, Shellhead. I wish it was different, but...that’s just the way of it. Hell, my first Union uniform was made by a factory that got its cotton from Alabama. They just...they don’t care. Not enough to go after a company like that. I’m sorry. I don’t know if that’s why you brought me the lockbox, or if any of this makes any kind of sense to you. It doesn’t to me sometimes, but...well. I’m just sorry, Shellhead. I don’t think there’s much I can do with those papers that anybody’s going to listen to.”

Shellhead heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples for a moment. He coiled one of his tentacles around Steve’s hand where he gripped the side of the boat, patting at Steve’s hand almost absently. It was a strange, almost ticklish, sensation, but Steve felt a slight shiver run down his back that had nothing to do with laughing. He flattened his mouth and sucked in a breath, forcing his mind away from...stray thoughts he didn’t need to be thinking. 

“I’ll try, though,” Steve said, mouth tugging up into a rueful half-smile as Shellhead’s eyes snapped to his. “Bucky always said I had more gumption than sense,” Steve added with a light shrug. “Why not try, right? Maybe there’s someone up in Washington who’ll care, though no promises, okay?” Steve huffed, holding up a hand as Shellhead’s eyes snapped back to Steve with a far too hopeful look passing over his face before he quickly hid it. 

His tentacles were swirled with excitement, swatting and tapping at the boat and occasionally grazing Steve’s hands. Shellhead’s own hands cupped Steve’s face in his hands and his mouth split into a wide grin. His body seemed to strain forward for a moment, some kind of aborted action, and then Shellhead pulled away before Steve even really had a chance to register it. His hands dropped to his sides so fast Steve would have thought he had been burned if he hadn’t known better, though Shellhead still smiled up at Steve, a bit tentatively now, but a smile nonetheless. Steve had the sense of warmth and strength, rough hands that were somehow gentle, and then it was gone, and then it was gone, though he could still feel a slight tingle where Shellhead’s hands had been. 

“Think she’s about ready for a trial run?” Steve asked, clearing his throat and looking up and down the small boat, mostly to try to hide the sudden heat he could feel staining his cheeks from Shellhead’s gaze. 

Shellhead’s mouth twisted into a thoughtful look. He clapped his hands against the hull, nodded and smiled up at Steve. 

“Really?” Steve asked with no small amount of surprise. It seemed they had been working on this for ages, and he’d asked Shellhead to put her in the water at least a hundred times it seemed, always to be given a decidedly chiding look, but he supposed they had to finish sometime. He grinned, suddenly filled with giddy anticipation. “Well, let’s get to it, then!” 

Shellhead clamored out of the boat and onto the sand on the opposite side from Steve. “On three?” Steve suggested, and Shellhead nodded, wrapping his arms and a few of his tentacles under the boat’s hull. Steve counted down, and then lifted. The boat trundled off the struts and into the water with surprising ease, reminding Steve again just how strong Shellhead was, which sent a surge of warmth to places Steve thought better to ignore. They moved around to the back of the boat and pushed again in unison, sending it through the waves and leaving it bobbing in the tide while the two of them followed it into the shallows. 

Where it  _ floated _ . 

Steve let out a whoop of joy and turned to Shellhead with a wide smile. He didn’t really think through his next actions, it just sort of happened, buoyed by elation, relief, hope, fear, profound gratitude, and other emotions he didn’t want to name, but before he knew it, he was next to Shellhead, wrapping his arms around the creature and pulling him tight against his chest and rocking them back and forth in sheer, exalted joy and no small amount of relief. A heady, giddy sort of wonder filled him, and for that moment, all he could think about was how amazing this all was. How amazing Shellhead was. 

“You did it, Shellhead! Look at her!” Steve shouted, tipping his head back and turning to look at the small craft where it rode the waves. 

He grinned down at Shellhead, only then realizing just how close they were. They touched a lot, sure. Shellhead was incredibly tactile with those tentacles of his constantly feeling out everything around him and telling him God only knew what kind of information. It wasn’t that Steve was unaccustomed to the plush feel of the tentacles brushing against him seemingly of their own accord. But...this was different. 

He could feel Shellhead’s skin against his own. Not just the supple smoothness of the tentacles gliding haphazardly by, but a more deliberate press of Shellhead’s whole body against his own. Shellhead’s eyes were wide and dark, his mouth parted like he would have gasped if he could make such a noise. His hands were on Steve’s sides, gripping probably more in surprise than anything, but his hold was firm, his fingers splayed wide, just ghosting over the jut of Steve’s hipbone. Nothing indecent by any means, but intimate nonetheless. Steve could almost taste the musky, salt-brine smell of him as it filled the space between them. Shellhead’s tentacles lapped at Steve’s legs, coiling and stroking around and around, same as always, Steve told himself, but it didn’t quite  _ feel _ the same as always. Shellhead’s movements were uncharacteristically hesitant, but...there was almost a sense of calculation underlying the way the tentacles moved that wasn’t usually present. It felt...good. Comforting, in a way, but alarming, too, Steve’s muddled mind told him. 

Then, almost as fast as those thoughts spilled into Steve’s head, it wasn’t comfort he was feeling, not at all. Something else kindled low and deep inside him filling all the seemingly endless space in his mind with thoughts that were decidedly not comforting. Steve’s smile faltered. His breath became lodged in his throat, making his chest tight, and his whole body seemed to follow along like that was a commandment, going rigid with something that might have been panic or surprise, he wasn’t sure. He’s close enough to kiss, Steve realized, the air seeming to punch out of his lungs. I could kiss him right now, and no one would ever have to know, he thought, and then his mind shuttered, alarm coursing through him. 

Quickly, Steve peeled himself away from the embrace and put some space between them. Shellhead stiffened, a shadow crossing his face so fast that it was gone before Steve could manage to concentrate on it enough to name it. Shellhead pulled back, his hands dropping from where they gripped Steve’s arms. His tentacles retracted until he wasn’t touching Steve any longer. He looked up at Steve, an almost guilty expression on his face before he quickly glanced away, his forehead furrowed. 

Steve immediately felt terrible. The last thing he wanted was to make Shellhead feel badly just because Steve couldn’t keep himself from thinking such improper thoughts. By rights, Steve should be horrified by such thoughts, by his reaction to them, which wasn’t horror at all, but something else entirely. Shame, yes, there was plenty of that there. He was used to that. Under that, though...under that, interest. Want.  _ Desire _ . 

“Sorry, Shellhead,” Steve said around a cough as he tried to get his voice to work. “Didn’t,ah. Didn’t mean to just grab you like that. You’re just pretty damned amazing, is all. Guess I got carried away,” Steve offered with an apologetic smile. 

_ God, I’m going to hell _ , Steve thought to himself, but Shellhead was returning his smile with a soft, warm one of his own and pointed at Steve, then tapped at the center of Steve’s chest. 

“Ugh,” Steve said. He blinked owlishly at Shellhead, his mind stuttering to halt so quickly it felt like slamming into a wall. It took Steve a moment to clear his head enough to remember what he had even been talking about. The boat. Repairing it. Right. They were just...talking about the boat, that was all, and here Steve was, imagining--imagining sinful things, all because Shellhead was close, and Steve was, well, weak, he supposed. Weak and made wrong, obviously, if he could think such things as the thoughts that plagued him, but Shellhead didn’t need to know that and certainly didn’t need to bear the brunt of Steve’s failings. 

When he was gone, when he was away from here and back in civilization, surely…surely  _ then _ , these thoughts would dissipate. Surely. He had always been able to control them before, hadn’t he? It was the island, having no one else around, the sun, the heat, Shellhead being so--so...Steve stopped and ran a hand through his hair. So beautiful, his mind filled in for him. He sighed and looked down at Shellhead, who was giving him an odd look. If only he knew, he would probably swim away and never return, Steve thought. 

“Oh, right. Right, well. Thanks, Shellhead. Yeah, okay, I guess  _ we _ did it,” Steve conceded at Shellhead’s insistent gesture. “But, let’s face it, I’d still be trying to make a raft out of coconuts if it weren’t for you,” he grinned, earning a huffing wheeze from Shellhead. Steve bit his lip and glanced away, trying to tame his roiling thoughts. His heart was pounding in his chest. I almost kissed him, Steve thought with a frisson of panic. He hadn’t. But...he’d wanted to. That was...that had to be depraved, right? Like Father Flannery said. Sodomites, they had these...these unnatural desires, didn’t they? This must be part of that. It had to be. He cleared his throat and scrubbed a hand over his head, like he could wipe away the thoughts swirling through his mind.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Pretty sure you know that,” Steve admonished gently. “You’re kind of brilliant, Shellhead.” 

Shellhead actually blushed a bit, a pleased look bursting across his face before it disappeared, only to be replaced by something far more tempered. He shook his head back and forth, then ducked his eyes, mouth twisting into something almost like a frown before he seemed to catch himself. He shot a half-smile at Steve, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way it usually did. Instead, his gaze was soft, almost tender, and...sad, Steve thought, feeling his chest tug at the realization. Shellhead didn’t want him to leave. Steve knew that. But, he had helped, made it possible, really, and that--well, that meant a lot to Steve. 

“Let’s give her a bit of a go, how about?” Steve suggested. 

Shellhead nodded, almost too eagerly, like he was happy to have something to do. Steve understood that feeling well enough. He watched his friend glide into the water and grab for the boat, steering it into the waves. Shellhead pointed at the space for the sail, then back at Steve. 

“I’m working on it. Almost done. You’re worse than Phillips about keeping me on task,” Steve said with a ready smile as he stripped off what was left of his shirt and pants. One thing he looked forward to if he ever made it off of his rock was a change of clothes and a bath in something that wasn’t saltwater. He’d pay every bit of his savings if that’s what it took for an hour at the bathhouse back in port, he thought with a bit of a rueful smile. He tossed his clothes further up on the shore and stepped into the water. 

Shellhead was watching him, Steve noticed, and this, too, felt different, though Steve told himself it was all in his own mind. His own licentious thoughts coloring everything. After all, he had taken his clothes off around Shellhead countless times to try to preserve the only items he had to wear and never thought anything about it until recently. ] Between growing up in tenements with shared toilets and a single spigot in the backyard for laundry, cooking and bathing and his time in the Army where close quarters meant a severe lack of privacy, nudity didn’t really bother Steve much, and it certainly hadn’t occurred to him to feel uncomfortable about it in front of Shellhead, at least until recently It’s my own head playing tricks on me, Steve told himself. Because of--because of the things he thought about sometimes at night. Shellhead was looking at him the exact same way he always did, which was to say, mildly curious and generally impatient. Except it...felt different. Which was ridiculous. 

Something like Shellhead probably didn’t even have concepts for things like nudity or--or other things, Steve thought, feeling a rush of heat to his cheeks. Shellhead didn’t wear clothes, of course, and probably had no real frame of reference for why Steve did. He certainly wouldn’t understand about what society considered appropriate or Steve’s sudden reluctance to swim with him. Steve certainly wasn’t going to try to explain it was his own prurient thoughts intruding on everything else that was to blame. 

So, he did his best to pretend that nothing untoward was running through his head, and stripping down in front of Shellhead was just like changing clothes around the men back in the Army. Just something you did and everyone understood not to look, that it didn’t mean anything, just pure necessity and nothing else. Except...except sometimes, Steve would catch Shellhead watching him, or thought he did, like just now, and there would be...something...there. Something in the creature’s gaze that made Steve’s insides flush hot and coil with a thrumming pressure, like now, when Steve was suddenly incredibly conscious of his body on full display and Shellhead’s eyes on him, something...something  _ pulling _ at him there, in Shellhead’s gaze. 

He knew it was all in his mind. A sad reflection of his own debauched fantasies, no doubt. This was probably why the Church was so adamantly against this kind of thing, or they would be if they knew of  _ this _ kind of thing, Steve was sure, because it got into all your other thoughts until you couldn’t think about anything else, Steve told himself. 

He needed to just...stop. But, how many times had he told himself that? Too many to count, he thought with a sigh, eyes darting over to Shellhead before he could stop himself. These stray, illicit thoughts kept creeping into his mind at the oddest times, no matter how harshly and fervently he commanded himself to stop. When Shellhead worked on the boat and Steve watched his hands work the tools like he was born to it, when he swam through the water, all red and gold velvet and tan skin, when he looked at Steve and smiled, his dark eyes dancing with laughter at something Steve said or did...so many little moments that meant nothing, and yet, it was at those times that Steve’s mind kept conjuring the worst kinds of perversions. 

Steve cleared his throat, did his best to surreptitiously glanced at Shellhead, who quickly looked away, then dove under the water. When he surfaced, Shellhead kept his gaze studiously focused on the boat, examining the seams and planks, until Steve was hip-deep in the water and standing next to the boat where it rocked in the waves. 

“Looks like she’s holding pretty good,” Steve observed, his throat tight as he tried to keep his tone neutral. He looked out over the waves. The sea was relatively calm now, but he knew it wasn’t always like this. That was something to focus on, at least. As excited as he was about the journey, he was well aware how perilous this venture truly was. “Think she’ll hold up out there?” Steve asked. 

Shellhead pursed his lips in consideration, then bobbed his head back and forth and pointed up at the sky where a few puffy clouds floated lazily across a vast expanse of blue. 

“We’ve had good weather ever since the storm that sunk the  _ Valkyrie _ ,” Steve reminded him with a note of trepidation tugging at his voice. If a storm like that blew through again, there was no way this little boat would make it, and if they were too far from land...there was a point of no return when the meager supplies the boat could carry wouldn’t be enough to sustain him, and, well...that was that, unless Shellhead produced another miracle. Steve shook himself a little. There wasn’t any need to worry about things he couldn’t control, he told himself firmly. 

“You’ll stay with me, though, right Shellhead?” Steve asked, though he really already knew the answer. “No matter what...you’ll stay with me, right?”

Shellhead looked over at him, his face a taut, careful mask as he nodded solemnly. He disappeared under the water, appearing just slightly behind Steve, so close that Steve almost startled away, but the boat was in front of him, blocking him. One of Shellhead’s tentacles wrapped around his upper arm, not tightly, but hard enough that Steve could feel the strength there. He remembered the dark, round bruises there when he first awakened here. Shellhead’s marks, he thought idly, something deep and primal rousing low in his belly. 

Steve turned away, back towards the boat, his hands gripping the edges hard enough that his knuckles were white with the effort. He could feel Shellhead behind him. They were so close again. So close. He could just reach out and touch Shellhead, if he wanted. Or Shellhead could touch him. However he wanted, and Steve wouldn’t--there was no where for him to go, so he would just have to--to let him do whatever he wanted. Steve sucked in a sharp breath that seared its way through his chest. The way the creature was looking at him, it was like Steve could still feel it, burning through him,  _ seeing _ him. Oh God, oh God, Steve mentally chanted, a prayer or a plea, he wasn’t sure. Something like fear spiked through him, making his heart pound, but it wasn’t fear, not really. He knew what fear felt like well enough, but it was easier to call it that than to name it what it was. 

Silken skin brushed against Steve’s legs where Shellhead’s tentacles undulated through the water. A terrible thought filled Steve’s mind, so crisp and clear and sudden, as if it had simply dropped in from some place far above, though a part of Steve knew it was more a culmination of everything he had been thinking these past months. Shellhead was strong. Stronger than him. He could do whatever he wanted to with Steve, and Steve would be powerless to stop him. He could... _ do things _ to Steve, if he wanted. He could do  _ that _ to Steve, that thing in Steve’s mind that he could barely look at. Dark, writhing shapes filled Steve’s mind and heat flooded him, making him feel suddenly boneless. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears. His body went rigid. He couldn’t move. He was pinned there.  _ Trapped _ . Oh, God, he thought, mind buzzing with a shameful thrill. There was a tightness in his belly. A pressure there, pulsing down the length of his cock, which throbbed and hardened between his legs. 

He swallowed, or tried to. There was no saliva in his mouth. He needed to get control of himself, but all he could think about was--he couldn’t say it, couldn’t even quite think it, but the idea of it, vague and hazy, clung to his mind like a spider’s web. He couldn’t shake it. Of course, Shellhead wouldn’t do anything like that. It was horrible to even think of such a thing. He wouldn’t even want to, it was just Steve’s own depraved thoughts pushing themselves to the forefront of his mind after years of making sure they were safely buried. Shellhead wasn’t like that, like him, probably didn’t even--couldn’t even, and certainly, would never think such a thing, such a--such an indecent, profane thing as  _ that _ . 

Finally, Shellhead’s tentacle released his arm, and Steve heard a small splash from behind him. Shellhead reappeared on the other side of the boat again, his eyes downcast, barely able to meet Steve’s gaze. He was biting his lip and tapping one hand at the blue stone necklace he wore, a nervous habit Steve had observed a few times before when Shellhead was particularly upset about something. He kept giving Steve quick, darting looks, almost beseechingly apologetic in some way, as if he expected to be berated for something, though Steve had no idea what. 

“We should,” Steve started, then stopped as his voice scraped over the words. He looked over at Shellhead. His cock still ached, but at least the chill of the water and his own insistence on tramping down such thoughts seemed to be having some effect. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Gossamer thoughts still clung to the corners of his mind like cobwebs, but he refused to look at them. 

“We should celebrate,” Steve said. He coughed a bit into his hand. There, that was better. He almost sounded normal. “Tonight. I have that cask of rum you found. Been saving it. I’ll pack up the boat tonight, finish the sail, and then we can toast to--to fair winds and following seas, as they say. What do you think, Shellhead? Care to partake in a bit of revelry to mark the occasion?”

Shellhead raised his eyes, giving Steve a searching look, then slowly nodded. He tried a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes again, Steve noticed. 

“Great!” Steve said with as much excitement as he could muster. If it rang hollow to his own ears, well, it wasn’t like he didn’t have a few things to worry about. “Help me get her back up on shore?” 

Together, they managed to get the boat back on the sand. Shellhead rolled a couple of rocks in front of it to moor it. Steve was glad for the cover of the boat between them, and hurried to turn his back and get dressed while Shellhead slunk back into the water. 

“I was thinking we could call her the  _ Marvel _ . Like the magazine with all the adventure stories that I was telling you about. What do you think?” Steve proposed as he turned around to find Shellhead lurking near the line of rocks just off to the side. “Try to control your enthusiasm there, Shellhead,” he winced as Shellhead’s eyes peeked just above the waterline. “Well, I, for one, think it’s a fine name. Fitting, I would say, all things considered.” 

Shellhead’s tentacles splashed at the surface of the water, but he didn’t come up any further, just floated there, watching Steve. 

“Come on, stranded on a desert island with a--with you, who builds a ship from a bit of wood, coconut shavings and palm fronds? A story easily worthy of filling the pages of Marvels Magazine, if it were still in print, no doubt about it. It’s a perfect name, I’ll hear no aspersions on it,” Steve said. Shellhead rolled his eyes. 

“I’m going to get the supplies loaded,” Steve called out, glancing up towards the slightly-leaning shack he had been calling home for so long. He had already readied most everything. It just needed to be loaded into the boat and a few last minute items packed. “You’ll come help me celebrate tonight, though, right?” Steve asked. 

Shellhead drifted closer, his head rising above the water, and he nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the sea. Finally, he dragged his gaze back to Steve, gave him a long look, then dropped beneath the waves. A minute or so later, Steve saw him out beyond the break point where the white-capped waves rolled in on themselves as they were pushed to shore. Steve stared a moment longer to see if the creature would reappear, but the sea remained glasslike, save for the few ripples where the waves broke. 

He grimaced, running his hand over his mouth. He understood why Shellhead was so withdrawn lately, or thought he did. Neither of them could ignore the inevitable. Steve was leaving, and even if reaching an inhabited island was nigh impossible with what he had to work with and the chances of being picked up by a ship all but infinitesimal, he had to try. He couldn’t stay here forever, after all. That would be...crazy. To want to stay here. That would probably mean he was insane. Not that he was unhappy here, quite the contrary. But, no one in their right mind would  _ choose _ this. Staying here would be...he stopped, shaking his head. Staying here would be impossible, that’s what it would be. 

He sighed, then paused as he stroked his beard. He should shave, Steve thought to himself. If he was going to go back to civilization, he should at least make the attempt to look the part. Shaving, as it turned out, ended up taking longer than he would have thought, though, as he patted his newly-smooth cheeks and caught his reflection in the small, cracked mirror Shellhead had brought him, he was glad he spent the time. He looked more himself than he had in ages. Felt more himself, too. 

Packing also took longer than he would have liked, considering how little he actually had, and he debated on how much water to take given how the extra weight would slow him down, but finally settled on more than he hoped he would need. Food, he figured Shellhead could provide, not that he relished raw fish, but fresh water was a necessity. Here on the island, he could boil seawater and distill it into something drinkable, but he didn’t think setting a fire in the _ Marvel _ was exactly feasible. He did have stores of fruits, a few vegetables, nuts, and dried seaweed, along with dried and salted fish and gull meat and several coconuts that would last him a while if he was careful with his rations, but it was the water he worried about. 

He picked at a few bits of food as he packed, though he didn’t want to stop long enough to eat a proper dinner. There was too much to get done, and he was too full of nervous energy, besides. The gold coins and pearls went in a makeshift bag. If he did make it back, at least he wouldn’t be a pauper. He rolled up the ship manifests and cargo lists and tucked those in the bag, too. He had no idea what he would do with them, exactly, but he’d promised Shellhead to try to do  _ something _ , even if what that something was remained illusive.

After carrying everything down to the boat, Steve finished the last part of the sail, then rolled it up and set it inside the boat just as the sun was starting to set. He kept a small cooking fire going inside a covered rock pit near his cabin, so it was relatively easy to get a larger fire going on the beach once he had gathered enough debris. He circled rocks and sand around it, then went back up to the cabin and pulled out the cask of rum Shellhead had found a few weeks ago. Hefting it onto his shoulder, he grabbed the fancy silver cup Shellhead had brought him early on and another mismatched one for Shellhead, then carried it all down to the beach and sat it down in the sand by the fire. The smoke had a distinct salty tang to it, and Steve smiled grimly, thinking that it would be a long time before he missed the smell of the sea. 

Steve had been saving the rum in anticipation of just this occasion, though, at the moment, he couldn’t honestly say if he felt like celebrating. Still, it seemed like he  _ should _ want to celebrate, and if it helped Shellhead feel a bit less melancholy about things, then it was worth it. 

He hoped the rum was still good, but he would probably drink just about anything that wouldn’t kill him at the moment. It took him awhile to get it uncorked. It had swelled, wherever it had been stored. He ended up needing to borrow Shellhead’s hammer to get it open, and when he did, it started to run out of the cask before he could even get his cup under the spigot. As soon as the rum reached the top of the cup, he shoved the cork back into place in the cask and took a hesitant sip. 

Sweet, delicious cane rum filled his mouth and flowed down his throat. Steve smacked his lips at the taste. It was good, not like the cheap stuff he was used to back in port or on the ship, and not watered down, either. He could feel it burn all the way down to his stomach. 

He looked out at the sea, watching as the sun dipped slowly beneath the waves, hoping to see the familiar splash that tended to be Shellhead’s signal that he was near, but couldn’t see anything except the usual whitecaps. Steve tried to brush off the sting of disappointment, but it curdled in his chest and wouldn’t quite let go. 

Some celebration, he thought with a bitter twist of his mouth as he downed another sip. Not that he wasn’t happy to be leaving, even with the uncertainty. Of course, he was happy about it. He missed his friends. He wanted to know what was going on in the world, now that the War was over. And now, of course, he had the duplicate cargo lists to do something with, though God only knew what. Not like anyone was going to believe some nobody of a sailor who’d spent the better part of a few months washed up on a supposedly deserted island, not when he was accusing a venerable company like the Stark Trading Company of something that nefarious. Chances were, he would be laughed out of any magistrate’s office, if not brought up on charges for defaming the company’s good name. But, he had promised Shellhead he would try, and so he would. Somehow. 

His first cup disappeared surprisingly fast. He blinked at it for a moment, then shrugged and refilled it. If Shellhead wasn’t going to join him, that was his business, but it didn’t mean Steve couldn’t enjoy himself. He did feel lighter. His worries from earlier were still there, sure, but distant. Fuzzy, he thought, then grinned because the word sounded amusing in his head. 

He squeezed a part of one of the mangoes from his stores on the boat into the second, making it a bit more palatable, and sat back in the sand. The fire was warm, almost too warm. His skin seemed to be heating from the inside out. He felt good. He was still worried about what the morrow would bring. He wasn’t blind to what leaving here risked, even with Shellhead along. He could die out there. One stray wave, something going wrong with the  _ Marvel _ , his water being damaged or lost, pirates, any number of things he wasn’t even able to imagine, and it likely meant his life. He wasn’t sure how far even someone as strong as Shellhead could drag him, if it came down to that. The sea was vast and even Shellhead had his limits. 

Probably. His mind hummed with a light, low buzzing sensation. Shellhead was pretty strong. Steve remembered, vaguely, almost like a dream, how it felt to be wrapped up in Shellhead’s tentacles, floating, safe, cared for. He wasn’t sure how much of that memory was real and how much was just something his mind made up, the way it made up other thoughts about Shellhead. 

“You out there, Shellhead?” Steve called out. Nothing answered except the waves. He frowned, started to stand up, then felt his body give way, eliciting a surprised huff of air as he sprawled back onto the sand. 

“Never was much of a drinker, despite the Irish,” he said to the wind and waves, tipping his cup in silent salute. Bucky would probably give him hell, if he were here to see Steve tipsy after barely imbibing two cups, but the rum was good, and it was nice to just...not have to think for a little bit. Or, to think all he wanted, but not _ care  _ so damned much about how wrong the thoughts were. That was nice. 

Steve hesitated a moment, then finished the rest of what remained in his cup and lay back in the sand, staring at the stars while the soothing susurration of the waves filled his ears. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. He thought he might have dosed for a bit. The fire, at least, had gone down, though it still crackled. He sat up and brushed a bit of the sand off of him, looking out at the sea. It was then that he heard the splash, distinct from the way the waves pounded on the rocks, at least to his ears. He sat up and scanned the water. There, just where the water got deep, he saw a shadowed figure hovering by one of the larger rocks. 

“You’re late, Shellhead,” Steve admonished lightly. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but there was a pleasant, buzzing note filling his head, and that was nice, he decided. Shellhead didn’t answer, just sat there, out by the rocks. “Got started without you,” he added, holding up the silver cup and flipping it over to show Shellhead it was empty. “Don’t worry, there’s still plenty more where that came from. Come on up and join me!” Steve called out, though Shellhead didn’t move. 

Steve frowned. Some celebration, he thought with a flash of annoyance. He had one night left here, if all went to plan, was it so much to ask that he got to spend it with his friend? He sighed and sat the cup down in the sand, pulling his knees up to his chest as his frustration quickly evaporated. It wasn’t Shellhead’s fault that he didn’t want to celebrate Steve leaving, assuming that was the reason for his distance and not because he suspected anything amiss in Steve’s thoughts. 

Shellhead had only ever been his friend, and how had Steve repaid that friendship? By turning it into something lustful and immoral. Didn’t that just figure? Wasn’t that what Father Flannery always warned about in his sermons about the sins of the flesh and those kinds of thoughts in particular? Steve had been so good, though, or tried to be, even when some of the other soldiers found comfort with each other or the prostitutes that appeared at every encampment. Not that Steve judged them for it, not with everything they faced, but he tried so hard to be good, and yet here he was, letting his lecherous thoughts affect a friendship with someone as extraordinary and unique as Shellhead. They only had a short time left together if everything went as planned. If he let his issues keep him from spending that time enjoying Shellhead’s company, he would probably never forgive himself. 

“I know you’re out there, Shellhead, come on,” Steve pleaded. Shellhead didn’t move from his spot, but Steve heard another splash, which was at least an acknowledgment, he figured. 

It reminded him a bit of that first night, when he realized what Shellhead was, that he wasn’t alone here, and exactly how he had been saved, and, perhaps most importantly, that he was glad of it. It probably shouldn’t have been as much of a revelation, but after the War and trying to adjust to there being no more War, Steve couldn’t deny that it had been. And he owed this chance, all of this, to Shellhead. This was their last night here in their own little sanctuary before everything changed, and Steve was letting it slip away because of his own inability to control his wayward thoughts. He could do better. He knew that. He could be a better friend to Shellhead, who gave and gave and asked nothing in return. 

He swayed a bit as he stood, and it took a second attempt to quite get his feet under him in the soft sand, but he managed it. Shucking his shirt and then, with only a brief hesitation, his pants, he tossed them on the beach. He couldn’t very well trade practicality for modesty at this point, he figured, making his way out into the surf. 

“How about I bring the party to you, then,” Steve announced as he waded deeper. “Come on, Shellhead, I know you’re...Look, I just wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry, okay? For, ah, for earlier, for what I-- _ whatever _ it is that I did. I didn’t mean to upset you, honest, and I know--I know me leaving, it’s-” Steve broke off, spluttering, as a wave hit him, knocking him off-balance, which was a lot easier to do than it should have been. 

He wiped the water off his face and scraped his hands through his hair, just in time for another wave to hit him. He stepped to the side, his foot slipping on an algae-covered rock as he tried to right himself. The water wasn’t over his head, at least not until a wave came, but he was already further from the shore than he intended. 

So, this may not have been his best idea, Steve admitted to himself, wiping the water from his eyes. The water was rougher at night, and he couldn’t see where he was stepping, not to mention that he was perhaps a little more inebriated than he realized. Another wave struck, pushing him to the side, and he slipped under for a moment before strong hands grasped under his arms and pulled him up. 

“Thanks,” Steve managed. Shellhead was floating next to him, arms crossed and face a mask of disapproval. “Well, you weren’t coming up to shore,” Steve shrugged. Shellhead made a growling, frustrated sound, rolled his eyes and dipped his head into his hand. Steve grinned and splashed lightly at him. “Hey,” he said. Shellhead shot him an exasperated look and made a sharp, hissing noise through his gills. 

“Don’t be mad, Shellhead,” Steve entreated. Shellhead grimaced, but Steve could see him already relaxing. “It’s just, I’ll miss you, Shellhead, I really will. We have one last night here, if all goes to plan,” Steve said, drawing Shellhead’s eyes to his, “and I didn’t want to spend it yelling at you from the beach. I was sitting there, thinking about waking up here and remembering how glad I was to get to wake up and how glad I was you were here and I wasn’t alone.”

Shellhead tipped his head to the side, mouth flattening, then he let out a sigh, his eyes going soft. Steve would almost call his expression wistful, if he was sure that was a thing that someone like Shellhead could understand. 

“Remember how I told you, I always wanted some kind of adventure,” Steve reminded him, “and I guess maybe this wasn’t really what I was meaning, not back that first night, but I wouldn’t trade this for anything, Shellhead. Back then, I didn’t much know why I’d survived the War when so many didn’t, and I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do. Nothing seemed like it was worth doing, not after everything that happened, and even when the  _ Valkyrie _ was sinking, I wasn’t sure if I really cared that much. Then, I woke up, and here  _ you _ were, amazing and impossible as you are, and suddenly...there’s so much out there again. So much in this world worth living for, just to get to be in a world where it exists, you know? Which I know doesn’t make any sense. The world didn’t change any, did it? It was always there, but...I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t see it, any of it, any of the good things. Nothing seemed to matter, all I could feel was numb because if I felt anything, it--it was going to be too much or something, and so I just didn’t.”

Shellhead’s eyes dropped and he pursed his mouth, a slight frown forming, then he nodded, as if he understood. Steve didn’t know if he really did, but the creature’s warm, sympathetic gaze felt a lot like empathy. At the very least, it held no judgment, and for that, Steve was ridiculously grateful. 

“Didn’t feel anything. Didn’t care, not really. I’d sort of pretend to, got pretty good at it, but I think Bucky and Nat could tell I had no idea what I was doing. Probably why they didn’t put up much of a fuss when I said I was coming down here to work,” Steve added. “Sam, you remember I told you about him from the ship? He asked me once, what made me happy, and I didn’t know how to answer him. But, now I do. You make me happy, Shellhead. I mean, I know I can’t tell Sam that, or anyone for that matter, they’d think I had gone insane, but you do. Make me happy. I didn’t even  _ mean _ to be happy, if that makes any sense. It just kind of happened, and then I was, I am, and...I guess what I’m saying is that nearly drowning, being stuck on a deserted island, all of this, it was like waking up to a totally different world, and I suppose maybe I needed that in order to be able to see things clearly again.”

He stopped and glanced around, feeling Shellhead’s eyes on him. There wasn’t any censure there, which by rights there probably should be, just understanding. Probably too easily given, but Steve would take it. 

“Bucky always said I could beat a subject into the ground when I got going. My Ma said I never had much to say until I did and then she couldn’t shut me up,” Steve said with a deprecating laugh. Shellhead smiled, too, a little wobbly, but fond. “What I mean to say is,” Steve continued, sucking in a breath, “is that all of this with you? It’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me, strange as that sounds. That’s what I wanted to tell you, and I didn’t want to shout it at you from the beach.” 

Shellhead stared at Steve a long moment, then one of his tentacles curled into a circle and he mimed taking a drink, one eyebrow raised. 

“Yes, I had some rum,” Steve laughed, “but, I’m not drunk. You can test me. I can still say all my letters, in order, and maybe backwards, except I might mess up the middle part, but I’d do that even without the rum. Take a compliment, Shellhead. I’m gonna miss you, is all.” Shellhead ducked his head, biting his lip as he looked away. 

“Here,” Steve said on impulse, reaching up to pull the chain with his sutler coin over his head and holding it out in front of him. “I want you to have it.” 

Shellhead turned back to him, eyes widening with shock. He shook his head adamantly, backing a way a bit in the water. He stopped, then pointed at himself, then at the necklace. 

“Yeah, you. I mean it,” Steve urged, realizing that he actually did. “I want you to have it. Really, Shellhead, I do. This way, you’ll have something to remember me by,” Steve suggested. 

His voice suddenly sounded a lot thicker than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. Something sharp and painful twisted in his chest. He wanted that, he realized. He wanted Shellhead to remember him. It would somehow be awful if he didn’t, though Steve was at a loss as to why that thought bothered him so much. 

Shellhead shook his head again, his mouth opening and closing, like he desperately wanted to say something, but his eyes kept darting between Steve and the necklace. 

“Fine, if you won’t just take it, then how about you just hold onto it for me, huh? For safekeeping. You gave it back to me before, after all. Plus, this way, it’ll mean I have to come back one day, right? So...you can just hold onto it for me. Until I make it back,” Steve said. Shellhead stared at the necklace, licked his lips once, his eyes hard and intent, then his gaze flicked up to Steve. There was something there that Steve couldn’t quite identify, but it made his insides squirm a bit under the scrutiny. “Please, Shellhead,” Steve whispered, his voice suddenly raw and thick. 

Shellhead opened his mouth, then flattened his lips into a thin line and let out a sigh, an uncertain, almost imploring, look in his eyes. Finally, he nodded and lowered himself down in the water enough for Steve to put the chain over his head. It had been something of a whim, when he suggested it, but now, as he stepped forward and slowly lowered the chain over Shellhead’s head, it felt like something else entirely. 

His breath caught. Everything seemed still and quiet, like maybe the world was holding its breath along with him. His fingers glided through Shellhead’s hair as he held the chain in a circle. It was soft, just like anyone else’s, Steve’s mind registered as stray curls brushed over Steve’s knuckles. His skin was smooth and surprisingly warm under the water’s coolness. Steve remembered that, suddenly, being warm when Shellhead held him as he carried him through the sea. Shellhead’s eyes were dark, fathomless pools. His mouth was slightly parted. Steve watched his throat work, and felt his own tighten in response. Steve could feel Shellhead’s tentacles swirling in the water between them, occasionally grazing Steve’s legs. It occurred to Steve that they were very close, like they had been earlier, except this time, he was very naked. Which, given his earlier thoughts, was a problem. Or would fast become one. 

“There,” Steve husked out, adjusting the chain slightly where it curled against Shellhead’s neck. 

Steve’s fingers slid off along Shellhead’s shoulders. He wasn’t quite able to deny himself the contact. Shellhead was watching him closely, his eyes searching Steve’s face. Steve wondered what he saw there. Probably too much. Steve tried to school his expression, but he knew he had never been good at hiding anything. 

He wanted to look away, but couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Shellhead’s eyes. He really is beautiful, Steve thought to himself. Shellhead’s eyes widened, and Steve had a moment to wonder if he had spoken aloud, but then Shellhead reached up and stroked his hand over Steve’s cheek with a soft, luminous smile. His hand was warm against Steve’s skin. Calloused and rough from all his work on the boat that would hopefully take Steve away. Steve wanted nothing so much as to lean into the touch, but before he could do anything, Shellhead pulled his hand back under the water, biting his lip and looking up at Steve with a sort of chagrined look, like he had been caught at something, when, really, it was Steve’s heart that wouldn’t stop its frantic hammering and Steve’s body that was reacting without his permission. Did Shellhead know? God, Steve hoped not, but he couldn’t seem to make himself pull away, even though some distant part of his mind kept screaming at him to move. 

He couldn’t though. He was rooted to the spot by some invisible force. Steve’s ears buzzed with the crash of the waves. His chest tightened, a stab of heat coiling low in his belly. His head felt light, everything pulling distant for a moment. He could feel Shellhead’s tentacles brushing over his skin where they floated. Not deliberately, of course, Shellhead didn’t know of Steve’s dark secret, but everywhere Steve felt the familiar rasp of velvety skin, his own skin heated like it had been branded. There was just him and Shellhead and this space between them, crackling with an energy Steve couldn’t put a name to. It was there, though, he felt it in his bones, tingling over his skin and leaving gooseflesh in its wake. 

Shellhead’s eyes were on him, his face an inscrutable mask, but he slowly raised his hand up from the water and wrapped it around the sutler’s coin where it dangled just above his blue stone necklace, holding it in a tight fist against his chest. It did something to Steve, to see that, though he wasn’t sure why. He liked it, though. That the coin seemed to mean something to Shellhead. He liked that a lot, too, he realized with a slight start of surprise. 

Steve cleared his throat and rubbed at his jaw. “Figured I should make myself presentable. In case this works.” Shellhead hummed, low and quavering, different from the sounds Steve had heard him make before. For some reason, the sound seemed to go right to Steve’s cock. “You approve?” Shellhead tilted his head, his eyes narrowing, darting over Steve’s face. 

Steve’s voice sounded rough to his own ears, like the words were being scraped out of him. It was hard to think. Shellhead was so near, and like this, he looked like any other man and not at all like any man Steve had ever known. Of course, were he a man, these thoughts in Steve’s head would be wrong, too, so what, really, was the difference? He was damned either way. 

Shellhead was so close, so close now, Steve could see the dark pools of his eyes, the way they caught the glint of the moon. Steve opened his mouth to try to say something, to change the mood, put all of this firmly back in the lockbox at the back of his mind where it belonged, but then Shellhead lifted his hand again. Slowly. Hesitantly. As if he expected Steve to move away at any moment. Shellhead’s gaze was locked on Steve, his eyes full of something almost like dread, and then he was cupping Steve’s cheek, his thumb sliding along the edge of Steve’s mouth. 

Steve didn’t mean to move, so much as he couldn’t help himself. He was drawing closer to Shellhead without even realizing it, letting the water carry him, and then he felt the slide of Shellhead’s tentacles thick and powerful between his legs, coiling around him, rasping over his skin, and surely, surely, that was not on purpose, it couldn’t be, but Steve’s mind whited out, then spilled over with forbidden images, heat flaring in his gut, tight and taut, and Shellhead’s mouth was right there, so close, his eyes dark orbs, and dear God, Steve  _ wanted _ . Needed. Craved. 

He wanted so badly, he couldn’t think of anything else. He could barely think of how wrong it was, that was like some knell sounding in a far-off place, and Shellhead was here, so close. So close, Steve could feel him, his chest against Steve’s, his hand hard and firm, a gentle pressure guiding Steve, his arm at Steve’s hip, tentacles swirling around and around, thrashing beneath the surface, flowing across Steve’s skin. It was too much sensation. Too much everything. Overwhelming. Irresistible. Wanton. Why had it never been like this before? A heady, throbbing beat of desire surged through him, and somehow, his mouth was so close to Shellhead’s, he could feel warm breath against his lips, could almost taste the salt of it, making his mouth water. 

Steve hovered there, his eyes on Shellhead’s mouth, their breath mingling. Steve could feel the heat of him, the heat of his mouth, his skin under Steve’s hands where he had gripped Shellhead’s arms without realizing what he was doing. Steve closed his eyes with a groan of surrender. Their mouths met, bodies sliding together, and Steve was lost, his mind skidding off some precipice he hadn’t known was there before. Shellhead’s lips were warm and pliable, and they moved against Steve’s with careful precision, pressing lightly, then harder, nipping and slanting, somehow tender and forceful at the same time. 

It was enough to overwhelm Steve’s senses. He was floating. There was only Shellhead, the feeling of his mouth, the rough scrape of his beard along Steve’s newly-shorn skin, the familiar warm strength of him. It was amazing. Beyond anything Steve’s youthful, fevered fantasies of a kiss could have prepared him for, and then Shellhead’s tongue darted out, licking at the seam of Steve’s lips, plunging deep as Steve let out a gasp of surprise. 

His gasp became a moan as Shellhead’s tongue plundered his mouth, licking at his lips, curling against his own in a strange kind of dance that Shellhead seemed to know the steps to and Steve just let himself be led along. Shellhead’s hand was in his hair, tilting his head, fingers tracing a gentle path against his scalp. Steve could somehow feel that all the way to his toes. One of Shellhead’s tentacles wound its way up Steve’s back. Another wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against Shellhead, his cock, hard and jutting between his legs, slammed against the silken skirt of Shellhead’s tentacles. 

Sensation exploded down the length of his cock. He’d only ever with his hand, and this--God, this was like nothing he could have imagined. Shellhead’s mouth on his, the warm, salty taste of him, his skin pressed against Steve’s, his hands roaming over Steve’s body like he was trying to memorize the shape of him, the course, raspy feel of the tentacles as they glided over him with light, feather suction, it all combined in his head and somehow concentrated in deep, throbbing ache at the head of his cock where it thrust against the velvety feel of Shellhead’s skin. 

It was like the best kind of friction, soft and smooth, but with a light drag and pull against the sensitive skin, and his hips thrust into the feeling of their own accord, chasing it, wanting more, and God, God, he couldn’t be doing this, could he? He shouldn’t want this, but everything he had ever wanted had been wrong, hadn’t it, so why not this? It was like he was falling down into some deep well and there was no coming up from it, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It felt so good. Like nothing he could have imagined. Was it supposed to feel like this, or was this much feeling supposed to tell him it was wrong? 

He groaned, leaning in, and felt Shellhead move against him. One delicate tendril brushed against Steve’s cock, by accident, surely, it had to be, but Steve’s whole body went rigid at the burst of feeling, like a line of fire through his belly directly to the head of his cock. He was hard, cock jutting out, too obvious for even Shellhead to politely ignore. Steve tore his mouth away with a gasp and tried to stagger back, but he couldn’t untangle himself, not when Shellhead had such a tight grip on him, and, God help him, he liked that, or at least his body did. 

Steve knew he should stop this. Of course, he should stop this. This was--it was wrong, it had to be, in so many ways, but dear God, it felt so good, so different from his own hand, so incredibly better than anything he could have imagined. It was like everything Steve had ever wanted but been afraid to name was suddenly pushed to the forefront of his mind, a well of desire freed from its confines, and he wanted. God, he  _ wanted _ . He wanted to feel like this, he wanted Shellhead, he wanted to make Shellhead happy, to make him feel good, he wanted--he wanted--his mind sort of stuttered, like the thought had hit a bump in the road, and then it was all emptying into his mind at once like a deluge that filled all the cracks and dark crevices that he had denied his whole life. Steve wasn’t sure if he could stop, even if he wanted to, and once he admitted to himself that he didn’t really want to stop, it was like a dam had been broken somewhere deep inside himself. 

Maybe this was wrong. Probably, it was. Steve had heard his whole life how wrong his thoughts were, so it was nothing new to think about, not really. But, it didn’t feel wrong, not this. It felt wonderful. Not just the way his body reacted, but the way it felt for it to be Shellhead making him feel this way. Shellhead, who saved him, who laughed with him and sometimes at him, who listened to Steve talk about whatever he wanted to talk about without a speck of judgment, who played chess like a champion and built water pumps out of scraps and told Steve that it was Steve who was amazing. Steve had never felt this way about anyone, that was the God’s honest truth, and maybe that was depraved, to care for someone so different, but he had seen what men were capable of when they insisted others were different. When they claimed to know what it meant to be fully human. That was depravity. This...this felt nothing like that. 

It was Shellhead’s crestfallen expression and hunched shoulders that felt wrong, Steve realized with a sharp tug at his chest. His tentacles were retracting already. Steve could feel them slipping off his skin, and Shellhead was sinking down in the water, eyes darting this way and that, flickering over Steve like he couldn’t quite help himself. Shellhead glanced up, mouth twisting into a grimace of desolate regret. 

Guilt flooded through Steve. He’d made Shellhead feel like he had done something wrong, and that wasn’t at all what Steve wanted, or even thought. If anyone was in the wrong here, it was him, after all. He’d been wrong for as long as he could remember, but this was the first time it hadn’t really felt that way. Steve reached for Shellhead, grabbing his hand and tugging at him a bit. He wished he could be more encouraging. He wished he could speak aloud what thrummed through his body, but the words were lodged in his throat. All he could do was lean down and capture Shellhead’s mouth again. His hands wove around Shellhead’s back, feeling the muscles clench and tighten under his fingers. 

Shellhead hummed, an odd, keening sort of moan against Steve’s mouth. It sounded desperate. Steve’s body seemed to vibrate in time with the sound, like a string plucked to play a particular chord. It was heady and wonderful, a hazy sort of fog filling his mind and keeping everything else at bay. 

Shellhead’s powerful tentacles climbed up Steve’s back and skimmed across Steve’s shoulders. One trailed up Steve’s inner thigh, just above his knee, the suckers lightly grazing across the skin there, making Steve shiver. A gasp slipped out of his mouth, and he pulled back, eyes widening as he stared at Shellhead. He was watching Steve carefully, his gaze hard and intent. Steve could feel his tentacles brushing against his legs and back, the undersides puckering against his skin in a strange mimicry of what Shellhead’s mouth was doing to Steve’s own. It was glorious. It felt like Steve’s whole body was on fire, consumed by sensation, yet he wanted more. He couldn’t articulate the need, groaning instead, his body rocking forward and eyes falling shut. 

The tentacle swaying just above his knee rose higher, tracing a slow, hesitant line, then wrapping around his thigh. Another did the same to the other leg. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He was held there, spread apart, a mass of tentacles behind him and around him, his cock jutting hard and thick while the waves caressed it, and oh, God, he wanted more, so much more. Shellhead watched him, one hand coming around to splay on Steve’s chest, then sink lower, grazing down between Steve’s ribs and over his belly. He paused there, just above the waterline, and looked up at Steve with a question on his face. Steve opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out, just a garbled sound that might have been please at some point. 

Shellhead’s face relaxed, his eyes going soft. He brushed his hand through Steve’s hair, almost soothingly, then he surged up and pressed his mouth to Steve’s again. Steve groaned, helpless, as his cock rubbed against Shellhead’s stomach and the silky abdomen that branched out like a star into his tentacles. Shellhead’s tongue swiped into Steve’s mouth just as his hand dipped below the water, fingers scraping a trail of heat down towards Steve’s cock. His body spasmed, and Steve’s hips seemed to thrust of their own accord, seeking friction, heat, contact,  _ something _ , anything but this maddening almost-touch. He felt Shellhead’s fingers tangle through the thatch of hair there, then finally, finally, stoke a light, halting path down the hard length of Steve’s cock.

Steve’s hips jerked, his body convulsing, and he broke away from Shellhead’s mouth with a sharp cry. Not pain, not exactly, but it ached, God it ached. A throbbing, pounding pressure filled his cock at the delicate touch. 

Shellhead’s hand wrapped firmly around Steve’s length, and he stroked. Not hard, but not lightly, either. Steve hissed out a wordless plea. The water smoothed the heat of the friction a bit, and Steve was used to the burning sting of his own hand with little more than what spit he could muster, but it was still overwhelming, not just the contact, but the fact that it was Shellhead. His savior, his friend, his helpmate. His Shellhead. Touching him like this. Shellhead would never hurt him or judge him or hate him afterwards, Steve knew that instinctively. It was freeing, in a way. For Shellhead, this was probably only natural, after all. They could make each other feel good, so why not? 

Shellhead hummed again, nudging at Steve’s lips with his own, his hand cupping the head of Steve’s cock and pushing at the hood until he could finger the slit. Steve’s grip on Shellhead tightened, his legs faltering. He was sure he was on the verge of collapse, but Shellhead’s powerful tentacles held him in some kind of strange embrace, suspended in the water while he feet danced across the sandy bottom, and Shellhead worked his cock. 

Steve was close, he could feel the steady pressure building. His cock was leaking. Shellhead rubbed his hand through it, catching just enough before the water washed it away to change the feeling for a moment, and Steve breathed a groan against Shellhead’s mouth. He let his head fall against the curve of Shellhead’s neck and buried his face there, the familiar briny smell comforting and intoxicating at the same time. He was clinging to Shellhead, too overcome to do much more. Shellhead’s mouth kissed a trail down Steve’s cheek, and he murmured a low, humming whisper against Steve’s skin as his hand stroked up and down Steve’s cock in a slow, steady rhythm that built and built. 

Steve’s hips juddered forward, pushing against Shellhead’s hand, and his cock glided against one of Shellhead’s tentacles where they undulated in the water. He cried out, half in surprise, half in something else. Shellhead gasped too, wet and huffing, then went nearly still, his hand slowing its rhythm. Steve felt the brush of just the tip of one of Shellhead’s tentacles graze over his cock, light and tentative. Steve’s mind faltered, suddenly off-kilter. It was one thing for Shellhead to touch him with his hand. Not so very different than what Steve did to himself, but this was...this was...different. Foreign and unfamiliar.  _ Wonderful _ , his mind supplied. Shellhead’s thumb scraped over the rigid, sensitive head of Steve’s cock. The rough pad of his finger offered a stark contrast to the raspy, silken feel of his tentacle, both sensations warring in Steve’s mind, seeming to slam into each other and explode behind his eyes, whiting out everything else. 

Steve gasped, and it fell into a stuttering moan. He closed his eyes and nodded jerkily against Shellhead’s neck, lifting his head to find the pliable, wet heat of Shellhead’s mouth again. It was sloppy and awkward, and Steve didn’t care, couldn’t care, not about that, not about anything, not when one of Shellhead’s tentacles wrapped itself around Steve’s cock and started pumping, hard and fast, gliding over Steve’s aching cock with that strange combination of velvety softness and raspy scrape, like it could somehow be both at once. A startled cry burst from Steve’s lungs and he broke the kiss, holding onto Shellhead lest he lose himself entirely. His mouth parted into a silent O, and all he seemed capable of was breathing, with even that punched out of him on every downstroke of Shellhead’s tentacle and punctuated at regular intervals by harsh, guttural moans. 

Shellhead’s tentacles pulled him tight, holding him close and keeping him upright. The ones at his back pushed, bowing and lifting him until he floated like he weighed nothing. The tentacles around his legs coiled tighter, one winding up and pressing against one of Steve’s balls, the suckers moving lightly over the papery skin there. Steve flailed a bit, hips jerking, but Shellhead’s rhythm didn’t falter. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed a trail down Steve’s neck to his chest, tentacles whirling and writhing around Steve, lifting him until Shellhead’s mouth covered Steve’s nipple, suckling hard at it while another tentacle puckered around Steve’s other nipple, working its suckers over the taut peak, just as the tentacle around Steve’s cock coiled around it, sheathing Steve’s length entirely as the sucker undulated over his skin like coarse, velveteen kisses. 

Stars burst in Steve’s vision, little pinpricks against spots of black, even though his eyes were wide open. His back arched, almost painfully, throat working. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes wide and unseeing. His mind was blank, awash in sensation. Feeling. Pressure and need burned through him, like he was being consumed by some fire within and would be reduced to ash soon. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not about anything that wasn’t  _ this _ . The tentacled on his cock pumped his length, whirring over it like a wave, stroking, pulling, tugging, all at once in a motion that seemed to have no name that fit quite right. 

The orgasm that rocked him felt wrung out of him, like the same tidal force that propelled the waves to shore and then pulled them back into the sea was pushing it out of him. He let out a shout, muscles going rigid as he convulsed. The tentacles toying with his balls suddenly gave them a squeeze just as Shellhead’s teeth grazed Steve’s nipple, sending another shockwave of heat through him even as the last of his spend was mercilessly pumped out of him. Steve’s hips canted forward, thrusting his cock into the silken sheath formed by Shellhead’s tentacle, chasing the last of the feeling. He gasped, let out a muted cry, then went boneless, his body seeming to curl in on itself. 

He could feel Shellhead’s tentacles twining around him, pulling him close, until he was flush with Shellhead’s chest, a low, soothing shushing sound coming from Shellhead. Steve’s mind drifted. There was a welcoming blackness there, just on the edge of his thoughts. He felt turned inside out, utterly undone, like someone had reshaped him from clay. Exhausted, but...cherished. Safe. He wanted to tell Shellhead he felt good, that everything was good, that they were good. That seemed important, but his limbs were uncooperative, far too heavy and sluggish to be of any use, so he buried his head against Shellhead’s neck, nuzzling there against the familiar salty warmth. 

Shellhead hummed a low vibrato that filled his chest and echoed into Steve’s own. Steve floated, feeling stupidly content. His mind was blessedly blank, the water rocking them both as Shellhead cradled him, tentacles skating over Steve’s skin with light, glancing touches that felt like nothing except the softest kisses Steve could imagine. It was good. He patted a hand to Shellhead’s chest, then slowed and fingered the sutler coin there while Shellhead stroked his hair and hummed. Steve hummed, too, eliciting one of those wet, chuckling sounds from Shellhead. 

Slowly, Shellhead maneuvered them up to the beach, laying Steve gently down on the sand. Behind them, the fire burned low, mostly smoke now, really. Wind danced over his skin, making him shiver. A half-moon hung low in the night sky, casting a bright shadow on the water. The tide lapped under him, lifting his legs slightly with each wave. He should move, he knew. Get up and put on his clothes, go back to his cabin and rest. But that seemed like such effort. Shellhead moved next to him, one hand stroking the hair back from Steve’s temple. He was looking down at Steve with an expression of concern. 

“Hey,” Steve said, his voice hoarse. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he tried again. 

Shellhead paused, mid-motion, eyes widening on Steve, and dropped his hand. His gaze darted away, and Steve watched him swallow, the gills on the side of his neck frilling as he breathed. Shellhead worried at his bottom lip, a tight frown forming. Finally, he dragged his gaze back to Steve, drawing in a breath and seeming to brace himself with it, his face going blank. 

Steve knew he could put what happened in a box in his mind and tell himself it was a product of circumstances so unusual that he could barely be blamed for whatever moral failings he committed. He could do that. He could blame Shellhead, if he wanted. Rail at him, curse him, put it all on him and absolve himself. He rather suspected his friend would allow him that, if he needed it. One more thing that Shellhead would give him if he asked it of him, Steve surmised with a frown. He could stop this right now and never look back at it. Catching his look, Shellhead’s mouth flattened and his eyes softened into half-moons, a silent apology seemingly already forming on his face. 

He didn’t want to stop. 

Steve brought his hands up to cup Shellhead’s face, his thumb tracing a path just under Shellhead’s eyes. It was wet there, Steve noticed, though he supposed that made sense. He heard Shellhead suck in another breath and hold it, waiting. Slowly, deliberately, Steve stretched up and pressed his mouth to Shellhead’s. It was a light, almost chaste kiss, nothing more. It didn’t have to be more. Steve wanted more, though. He didn’t know what he wanted, or he told himself that instead of admitting it outright, but he trusted Shellhead, who seemed to understand Steve better than Steve understood himself at times. 

Steve’s tongue flicked out, licking at Shellhead’s lips and they parted. The kiss deepened. It was a bit like falling back under the water, Steve thought. Warm, familiar and all encompassing, pushing the world away for so long as he had this. He didn’t have to think about tomorrow and what this likely doomed journey would bring. He could think only of Shellhead, only of how it made him feel to have this, even if it was just for this moment. This one time to carry with him a lifetime. 

Shellhead’s mouth moved against his, harder now, more insistent. His arms grasped Steve’s sides, pulling him closer, his tongue delving deep into Steve’s mouth. Steve lowered his hand between them and brushed his thumb over one of Shellhead’s nipples, feeling it harden. Shellhead groaned, so Steve repeated the motion, tugging lightly at it and rolling the taut peak between his fingers. Shellhead’s back bowed into the feeling and he let out a warm gasp into Steve’s mouth. He broke his mouth away, panting, eyes wide on Steve. Steve grinned and grabbed Shellhead about the waist, rolling him over in the sand. He tossed one leg over Shellhead until he straddled him, watching Shellhead’s eyes widen then darken as he regarded Steve with a heated gaze. 

Steve kissed him again, hard and quick, then bent his head and laved his tongue over Shellhead’s abused nipple, then took it in his mouth and sucked in earnest. He stroked his hands up and down over Shellhead’s ribs, then lower, across the skirt of his tentacles, running his fingers along their undersides as they came up to greet him. Shellhead tossed his head back, arching his neck, gills straining. 

“You like that, huh,” Steve murmured, lifting his mouth from Shellhead’s nipple with a wet plop. “Feels good?” 

Shellhead nodded emphatically and blurted a sharp, wet sound. Steve rubbed it again, and Shellhead’s eyes bulged, then closed, his throat bobbing. Steve sat back and took one of Shellhead’s tentacles in between both hands, rubbing its length, paying particular attention to the sensitive underside where the suckers kept grasping at his fingers as he stroked. It was a strange sensation, to be sure. Not unpleasant, not at all, just strange, but he liked the effect it obviously had on Shellhead. Steve moved on to another tentacle, and then another, stroking and touching. One of his tentacles, the one slightly larger and more firm than the others, slapped over Steve’s thigh, so Steve took it in his hands and stroked up and down. Shellhead’s hands dug into the sand, like he was grasping for purchase, then came up and rubbed at his own nipples. It was, perhaps, the most erotic sight Steve had ever seen. He could feel his cock harden against Shellhead’s stomach, though he barely paid it any mind. He felt it, that low, familiar throb of pressure pulsing through his belly and down his length, but the need was distant, dull, like an ache in his muscles that almost felt good. 

“Oh-ho, that’s the one, is it?” Steve grinned, working his hands around the appendage while Shellhead made a high-pitched, trilling noise and bit his lip so hard Steve could see the skin whiten. His back bowed, the rest of his mass of tentacles making frenzied movements that splashed in the waves. Steve released the tentacle, leaned down and kissed Shellhead again, his mouth sliding off as he kissed a path along Shellhead’s jaw. “What else would feel good, Shellhead?” he husked out in a whisper against Shellhead’s ear. “Maybe something else would feel good.”

Shellhead shook his head, almost violently, hands coming up to grip the sides of Steve’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again, looking up at Steve with a pleading expression that was caught between desperation and disbelief. Steve went still, his breath hitching. He opened his mouth to say the words, then closed it, dropping his head down between them and pressing his forehead to Shellhead’s chest. He could feel the sutler coin and Shellhead’s necklace against his cheek, and for whatever reason, that was enough. 

“Please, Shellhead,” Steve said, his voice barely a whisper. 

Shellhead hummed, a low, gravelly sound. It sounded like surrender, Steve thought, a moment before Shellhead’s hand came up to force Steve’s chin up until they were eye to eye. “Please,” Steve rasped out, his eyes locked on Shellhead. Shellhead would know. Shellhead would understand. Steve was sure of it.

Slowly, tentatively, Shellhead craned his neck up and captured Steve’s mouth again. Steve braced his hands on the side of Shellhead’s head and leaned into the feeling. This kiss was different than the others. Slow, deep, with something behind it that Steve couldn’t or wouldn’t put a name to. It was desolate and desperate and beautiful at the same time. 

The first brush of Shellhead’s tentacle over Steve’s ass was soft, hesitant. The second firmer. More insistent. The undersides of one of Shellhead’s tentacles grazed across the curve of Steve’s ass, and he felt the slight pucker of skin at the suction. The next pass was more purposeful, lingering longer. Steve kissed Shellhead harder, his tongue probing, gliding over Shellhead’s own, and he thrust his hips, cock sliding along Shellhead’s stomach. His ass was spread open by the position of his legs, and the next stroke was right down his crease. He started, grunting at the strange feel, and Shellhead stilled underneath him. Steve pulled back and regarded him for a long moment, then leaned down and found his mouth again. 

That seemed to be enough of a signal for Shellhead. The next swipe of his tentacles spread Steve’s cheeks and stretched his hole wide. A third tentacle swirled around his rim. Steve gasped, breaking the kiss, breathing heavily, then he surged forward and sucked Shellhead’s bottom lip into his mouth. The tentacle at his rim swirled again, then lay flat over his hole, the suckers working at the delicate skin there. Steve’s cock spurted, leaking fluid between them, and he moaned, knuckles digging into the sand. A viscous fluid dripped from Shellhead’s tentacle onto Steve’s ass. He could feel it seeping into him, and God, that thought alone whited out his mind. 

The tentacle lifted, leaving Steve’s ass bare for a moment, then he felt the tip trace his rim. He tore his mouth away, panting deep breaths, and looked down at Shellhead for reassurance. Shellhead’s gaze was soft, full of amazement and joy, and that was enough to send a burst of warmth in Steve’s chest. Their eyes locked. Steve felt the tentacle stroke over his hole again and then it was dipping inside, inside of him, like a pen into a well. Barely there a moment, but he felt it like an earthquake shaking through his body. It was inside him.  _ Shellhead _ was inside him. The air punched out of him. His mouth fell slack. All the while, Shellhead watched him, intent and tender. 

Slowly, the tentacle breached him again. Steve sucked in a sharp breath, held it, his eyes on Shellhead. It didn’t hurt. Steve hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it slid past his hole with ease. A nervous laugh escaped him, and Shellhead grinned, hands gripping Steve’s sides as Steve leaned down and found his mouth again. 

Shellhead pumped his tentacle in and out of Steve’s hole a few times, almost like he was letting Steve get used to the sensation. His tentacle felt different than the others. Surprisingly firm on the end, though not quite stiff, just harder than what Steve was used to. He pushed in again, swirling the tip around, then pressed deeper before slipping out again, and that--oh, Steve’s mind stuttered haltingly over the feeling. He could feel a sort of burning stretch deep inside him, followed by an emptiness like he had never felt before. Shellhead hummed against Steve’s mouth, and then the tentacle was back, pushing past Steve’s rim and thrusting deep inside of him, then out again. Over and over, until Steve felt loose and gaping when Shellhead finally withdrew, only to be rocked forward with the force of Shellhead’s next thrust. 

Steve gasped, his mouth knocking against Shellhead’s, as he felt the tentacle push hard and deep, the tip hitting some spot deep inside of Steve that made his cock jump and pleasure explode deep inside of him. Steve tossed his head back, neck arching as his body seized under waves of pleasure like he never imagined existed. Shellhead grinned, almost knowingly, at Steve’s shocked expression. He drove in again, finding that same spot. Steve felt he wasn’t even recovered from the first time, and now it was happening again, but exponentially more somehow. He bit out a curse and buried his head against Shellhead’s neck. He could feel Shellhead’s hands come up to run through his hair, tugging his mouth back up to claim it again, all the while ramming in and out of Steve’s hole and managing to find that perfect spot with the tip of his tentacle each and every time. 

Steve thought he might die. He wasn’t sure if it was possible to die of pleasure, but it felt like he might be on the verge of finding out. His hand reached for his cock, only to have one of Shellhead’s powerful tentacles bat it away and wrap around Steve’s wrist, pinning his hand to Shellhead’s side while Shellhead thrust in and out of him. He tossed his head back, the muscles in his neck arching in strain. He tasted the sea as one of Shellhead’s tentacles slid across his lips as another moved in and out of his hole. Steve opened his mouth in a gasp and suddenly, his mouth was filled with a sleek, velvety fullness, so full, he would have gagged, but then it was gone, almost before his mind could even agree with his body on what was happening. He heard Shellhead groan, and he bucked under Steve, ramming the tentacle working Steve’s hole deep into his body. Steve’s back bowed, and he ducked his head, dipping it against Shellhead’s chest. Fingers and tentacles mingled in his hair, up and down his back and sides, stroking him, soothing, and he wanted more, somehow, but he had no what that even meant, just knew that he did, as surely as he had ever known anything. 

“Shellhead,” Steve gasped. “Shellhead, please, _ please _ !”

Shellhead’s eyes were bright, focused on Steve, and he hummed, a high, keening sound that reverberated through Steve’s chest. Steve didn’t know the word for the sound, but he understood what it meant well enough. Want. Need. He answered it with a moan of his own, only to have his mouth filled again. Shellhead threw his head back, closing his eyes. The rhythm of Shellhead’s thrusts faltered a bit, and he squirmed underneath Steve, breaths coming in heavy pants. Suddenly, Steve felt a spurt of something thick and wet inside him. He barely had time to think about that before the tentacle inside him delved deep, the suckers gliding over the sides of Steve’s passage and rasping at his insides before one found that tiny point of pleasure deep inside of him and started to suckle at it. 

The tentacle slid out of his mouth, and an inhuman sound tore from Steve’s throat. It was like nothing he could have ever imagined or prepared for if he could have. Pleasure slammed into him. It rolled through his body, spiking down his back and over his skin, lighting him up from the inside. His heart pounded against his ribcage so hard, Steve was sure there had to be cracks. Waves of color filled his mind and stars danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. His mouth worked soundlessly. Shellhead was stroking his hands over him, up and down over Steve’s arms, ghosting over his chest and stomach. Steve couldn’t feel anything except bright, pounding pleasure consuming him from the inside, like summer heat-lightning bursting inside him. There was a hot, tingly feeling wicking over his skin. He was dizzy, sinking, falling apart like a thread had come unravelled. His back went taut as a bowstring. His body tingled, tremors flowing through him. There was a buzzing sound filling his head, filling his body, pouring into his cock where it strained upwards, trapped between him and Shellhead. 

Steve came with a shout, his cock untouched, but streams of white coating Shellhead’s chest and face, even spraying into his hair. He kept coming, more than he thought possible, all the while Shellhead grinned at him, covered in Steve’s spend, his eyes filled with happiness. Steve liked how he looked, covered in Steve’s come like that. Debauched and wicked and seeming to absolutely love it. He liked it a lot. 

Steve collapsed in a heap on top of Shellhead, his breath coming in shaking heaves. He felt Shellhead’s tentacle slide out of him, leaving him feeling open and empty in a strange, needy way. He made a noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to the side. He had honestly never felt this deeply sated in his whole life. He couldn’t have ever even imagined it. 

Shellhead rubbed at Steve’s back and shoulders with nimble fingers and silken tentacles, occasionally petting Steve’s hair, his chest vibrating with a low, soothing hum that filled Steve’s ears. Steve’s limbs felt heavy and loose, and they refused to respond to whatever stray thoughts passed through his mind. He could feel his eyes start to close as a heavy exhaustion settled over him like a blanket. He wasn’t sure if he had ever been this tired before, but it was a good kind of tired. His body was sore in places he hadn’t known existed, but the soreness was tinged with a strange sense of accomplishment and pride. He hummed, realizing after a moment that he was mimicking Shellhead. A laugh bubbled up, giddy and wondrous. Steve grinned. He lifted his head and glanced up at Shellhead, who smiled softly down at him, stroking his hands over Steve’s skin in a calming caress. 

Steve pillowed his head against Shellhead’s shoulder, feeling his tentacles cocoon around him, warming his skin where they rubbed. He shouldn’t be comfortable, but he was. Comfortable, safe, cherished, and for once, for this night, at least, uncaring about the path his desires had taken. There may or may not be a lifetime ahead of him to fill with regret and self-recrimination, but he wouldn’t start that here. Not with Shellhead. 

I would love him if I could, Steve thought, hazy and soft, almost like a wish instead of a real thought, then closed his eyes and drifted off. 


	6. Chapter 6

Steve woke slowly, with the vestiges of a dream still clinging to his mind. The first thing he was aware of was that he was cold. The second thing related to the first, he quickly surmised. He was tucked, still quite naked, in a burrow of sand that had been scraped out of the beach on the other side of the remains of the fire he built the night before. His body was stiff and sore. Sand coated his back, the backs of his legs, and seemingly random spots over his body. He itched at it, absently swiping some of it away, not that it made much difference. His tongue felt grimey, and he could taste sand and salt on it, and then he remembered _ why _, and…oh. 

He had sex last night. He had sex last night with _ Shellhead. _ Steve honestly wasn’t sure which one of those was the more astonishing. He waited a moment for the familiar shame and humiliation to creep over him, but instead, he felt strangely buoyant. He closed his eyes and breathed in the salt air, flashes of memory assailing him. Shellhead’s mouth. His hands. His eyes when they looked at Steve, almost worshipful in their intensity. And, well, the rest of Shellhead. There was that, too. He should probably be shocked by his own behavior, wanton as it was, and in a way, he supposed he was, but not because he was horrified by it. Far from it.

Last night had been _ wonderful _. Amazing. Stupendous. They didn’t make enough words for what last night had been, Steve thought, smiling a bit at the ridiculousness of the thought. In his wildest fantasies, he could never have imagined the way being with Shellhead made his body feel. If it was wrong, then he would say however many Hail Marys he needed to say, because the sin was easily worth the price. Surely, though, God wouldn’t have made a body to feel that way and then forbade it?

He opened his eyes and blinked, staring, for a moment, at the sky overhead. Clear and blue with nary a cloud. Good sailing weather, he thought, almost begrudgingly, because it meant he had to think about everything else. Today was the day. He would leave the island in hope of rescue, and while that thought, and a bit of rum, he conceded, had given him the courage last night to ask for what he wanted, in the light of day, it felt a bit like a yoke around his neck. 

He couldn’t stay here. He missed his friends, his home, his life, even such as it was. Even if Steve wanted to stay here…which he didn’t (did he?)…he couldn’t. It just wasn’t feasible. Besides, one good storm would send the sea right over the island, and even Shellhead might not be able to help Steve if that eventuality came.

With a sigh, Steve started to heave himself up and crawl out of the burrow. He stopped, something catching his eye in the morning sun. There was a shell sitting by his head, almost the size of his hand, flattened out almost like a butterfly’s wing with whorls of dark purples, blues, and greys swirling in a sea of opalescence. Steve reached for it, held it up to the light and watched the sun reflect a rainbow across the iridescent lining. It would have housed some kind of mollusk at some time, Steve assumed, but now, it was nothing but a relic. Steve remembered seeing baskets of them back in port where they were made into jewelry or decorative pieces to be shipped to Europe, New York or other far flung places. It was pretty, nothing more. Steve supposed that was enough. 

He smiled, setting it carefully back down in the sand. Shellhead’s penchant for gifting him with things he found on his foraging trips was something Steve thought was rather endearing, though Steve had to admit that he found it pretty amusing to imagine Shellhead scouring the deep for something appropriate to gift to Steve after last night. Or maybe Shellhead had been saving it, hoarding it away with whatever other treasures the creature kept. Steve sometimes, in a flight of fancy, liked to think of Shellhead lording over some sunken wreckage, surrounded by pirate treasure, but he thought the shell was nicer in a way, because Shellhead had seen it, maybe in passing, maybe it just caught the light just right, and thought of Steve.

Putting thoughts of the shell aside, Steve gingerly pushed himself up and peered around. The beach was empty. In truth, he had expected that. His clothes were strewn on the beach not too far away where he discarded them the night before. The stone circle he made for the fire held in little but damp ash. The silver cup and cask of rum were there where he left them, but there was no sign of Shellhead. With a sigh, Steve got up, and walked down to the water. Nothing moved except the waves, and Shellhead’s usual sunning spot amongst the copse of rocks was empty, Steve noted. 

Shellhead. 

God, last night…memories flashed across his mind like the pictures that appeared on the screen at that magic lantern show he and Bucky snuck into all those years ago, when such a thing had seemed daring, before either of them knew what daring was. The magic lantern projected picture after picture, Steve remembered, while the showman and musician added sound effects and music. Sometimes, the pictures on the screen even seemed to _ move. _ It was magical, indeed, he recalled, but nothing like last night. Nothing in Steve’s life compared to last night. He could still almost feel the raspy glide of Shellhead’s tentacles sliding over his skin, around him, _ in _ him, possessing him, Steve remembered with a rush of wonder, shame lapping at the heels of the thought. 

Steve shook his head. He didn’t want to start down that path, as easy as it would be to do. The memory of last night belonged to him. To him and to Shellhead. No one else got to poison it, and that included all the voices in Steve’s head that wanted to insist that it was some vile act, some depravity barely whispered about, that’s what they would say, Steve knew. If he let them. So, he just…wouldn’t. It was his. His and Shellhead’s, and they got to decide how to think about it.

Bucky always said he was good at keeping parts of himself locked away from the world. There was a bird—a jay, Steve thought—that lived for a while under the awning of the tenement that liked to steal bits and pieces of things. The wax paper that candy came in on the rare occasion someone was lucky enough to get a treat. Thread, sometimes. Steve saw it take a button once, right out of the sewing basket Mrs. O’Malley was using to mend her daughter’s dress. When Steve told Bucky about it, Bucky said he was like the bird, wanting to hide away his bits and pieces, Steve remembered, though Steve didn’t think Bucky quite knew just how much that was true. Maybe that was what he was doing with this. Hiding away something precious so no one could find it. 

He stepped out into the water, letting it wash the grit off his skin. Spat out flecks of sand and swiped his tongue over his teeth, using the saltwater to rinse his mouth. There were streaks of dried fluids flaking across his skin in various places. He decided not to think about what, exactly, those were and just washed off as best he could. His chest, neck and arms were dotted with small, circular marks, he noticed, now that he was up and in the sun, like the ones he found on his arm when he woke up here on the island. Looking at them, he felt a tug deep inside the pit of his groin, not quite desire, but like an echo of it. He liked the marks. They made last night more real, in a way, which made an odd sort of sense. Steve felt somehow permanently altered, after all, like someone had remolded him from clay and fired him into something else, and the marks were talismans of that. Tangible proof that he was not as he had been before. 

There was other evidence, too, of course. A deep, aching tenderness pulsed inside of him when he moved. Not entirely unpleasant, but noticeable, he thought with a wince as he rubbed sand off his calves. And he felt…empty. Not just…not just _ there _, though he supposed that was likely a part of it, but it was more the absence of something. Someone. Whatever it was, the emptiness was there because of Shellhead. Because of what they had done last night. A shiver ran through him at the thought, and Steve stopped long enough to scan the tide again, but saw nothing that hinted that Shellhead was lurking around. 

“You can come out, if you’re there, Shellhead,” Steve called out over the steady rush of the waves. “I’m not upset, if that’s what has you worried.” 

Shellhead didn’t appear, though Steve waited, waist-deep in the water, hoping to spot the familiar splash until thirst drove him back to the beach. He made his way back to his cabin, or what was left of it after they cannibalized the pieces for the repairs to the _ Marvel _ . He rummaged through the few remaining supplies that he hadn’t loaded onto the boat until he found the last bit of fresh water he’d saved, some leftover dried meat and one of those fruits shaped like a star that hadn’t made it into the _ Marvel’s _ supplies. His hunger and thirst sated and almost dry from the breeze clipping across the island and rustling the few, sparse trees, Steve lumbered back down to the beach and donned his tattered clothes. 

The _ Marvel _ waited. And, hopefully, Shellhead. 

He always wanted to see his friend, but particularly this morning. It felt wrong, somehow, not seeing Shellhead down on the beach like usual when he took his morning swim, as if he was maybe avoiding Steve. Steve knew he was jumping to conclusions, but, well…Shellhead wasn’t there, and he almost always was when Steve got up, and last night had been…what it was. Whatever the reason, he wanted to see Shellhead with a sharp, fierce need like a drumbeat in his chest pounding out Shellhead’s name. He could call it concern, if he wanted, and maybe that was part of it, but mostly, Steve just needed to set eyes on him. Make sure last night hadn’t changed things too much. Or make sure it had, he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted, he realized with a tight grimace. 

_ He _ was changed, that was for sure. He didn’t think he could ever be the same, not after something like that. He felt energized. Excited, even a little giddy, but mostly, he was grateful. Grateful that he got to have an experience like that once in his life, because he was fairly certain there wasn’t going to be much to compare to it, and he needed to tell Shellhead that. The last thing Steve wanted was for Shellhead to think Steve was distraught by the events of the night before. He was a lot of things this morning, but _ distraught _was not one of them, Steve thought with a grin.

Steve started for the little boat, where he thought Shellhead might be lurking, then stopped, turned, and bent down to pick up the shell and then, almost as an afterthought, the silver cup with its fancy crest of an armored knight over the Stark Trading Company logo. Clutching one in each hand, he made his way for the _ Marvel _. 

The boat was sitting where they left it the day before, moored, as it were, on the sandy beach. Steve reached over the side and tucked both items into the bag with the gold coins. Grimacing, he turned towards the water. There was a window of opportunity to leave while the sea was in a cooperative mood, and it was closing fast, as he knew from too many days of observation. The tide would pick up and grow stronger as the day went on, making the Marvel’s journey out to open water all but impossible. Even with the oars, Steve didn’t think he could get the boat past the break point of the waves some hundred or so yards from shore, where the rocks tossed whitecaps high and hard before they petered out and limped towards the shore. At least, he couldn’t do it by himself, that much was certain.

“Shellhead? You there?” Steve said, approaching the water line. “Last night…I didn’t—I didn’t _ mean _ for that to happen. Or, well. Maybe I did. I don’t know,” he broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m not…Shellhead, I’m not upset about what happened, and even if I were, I’d never blame you. You’re my friend, one of the best I’ve ever had, truth be told, and you only…you did what I asked you to do, and I—I wanted it to happen. There. That’s the truth. I wanted it. With you. For a lot of—of probably dumb reasons, but mostly because I—I like you a lot, Shellhead, and maybe this is all we get, these few months here, and I…I guess I wanted it to be something…something— _ more _.” 

“The truth is,” he said, stepping into the water until it lapped at his knees, “I don’t regret it. Maybe I should. That’s not true,” he added after a moment’s pause. “I think… I think there are probably a lot of things I should regret in my life, but not last night. Not that. I’m not going to do that. So…so, if you’re out there, please come back. I don’t know how to feel about all this, not with you out there and me up here. Feels all wrong, Shellhead. I don’t know how to feel about anything today, to be honest,” Steve finished with a deep sigh.

No telltale splash appeared at Steve’s words. He put his hands on his hips and ducked his head with a slight frown, then lifted his eyes to the horizon where the waves slapped at the sea. If Shellhead truly didn’t return or refused to help…maybe after last night, maybe Shellhead changed his mind? Maybe, after last night, he wanted to keep Steve here so they could…Steve cut that thought off, stashing it away with the rest of the things he didn’t want to think about. No, no, Shellhead wouldn’t do that, Steve told himself with a shake of his head. Even if he didn’t want to see Steve leave, he would help, if that was what Steve wanted, Steve was sure of it. Even if it meant Shellhead would be alone, and Steve would never see him again. 

It was hard to remember why he wanted that, but, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the tiny island, this was no place to spend the rest of his days, however many those may be, and he thought Shellhead knew that. At times, it felt like Shellhead understood that even more than Steve did. 

“The shell was nice, thank you,” Steve said with a slight smile. “Reminded me of a butterfly’s wings with all the colors like that. I remember one year, when I was about nine or so, millions of them just showed up the first week of September in this field just outside the city. It was the milkweeds. They loved them for some reason. They were all over the bushes, dangling from every twig, it was all you could see. Bucky said his teacher told them that they were on their way down south for the winter, just like birds. Never knew butterflies did that. But, these did. This great big swarm of them, and for just a little time, they rested there. I wanted to go see them so badly, but I was sick, like always,” he sighed at the memory. “Bucky went with some of the other boys from his school. Hopped a ride on the back of a milkwagon. He told me all about it when he got back, so I could draw it, if I wanted. I never did, though. I think I was put out that I couldn’t go. I should have, though. I should’ve been happy with a friend who cared enough to come tell me about it because he knew I’d want to draw it.”

Steve stopped again, looking out at the sea, then raked his hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure why he was pouring his soul out now, but he supposed it was as good a time as any, and just because he couldn’t see Shellhead out there, didn’t mean his friend was there. Steve couldn’t be sure, but he thought he was, if only because Shellhead always came to him when Steve needed him, like he had some kind of sixth sense where Steve was concerned. Or maybe he just paid attention to Steve in a way that Steve wasn’t really used to. No, Shellhead was out there, Steve was sure of it. Lurking somewhere under the waves where Steve couldn’t see him, but he was there. He wouldn’t…not be there, not when Steve needed him to be. Steve wasn’t sure why he was so certain of that, but he trusted it more than he trusted just about anything. 

“I guess what I’m…what I’m trying to say is that I spent most of my life missing out on a lot of doing, you know?” Steve continued, talking to the waves like it was a completely normal thing to do. “Then I got better, but there was work, just trying to make enough to scrape by, and then the War came,” Steve recalled with a flat grimace. “When I look back, there isn’t much of any of that where it feels like any kind of life, so much as a getting by until the next day and then the next after that. Running off down here, it was maybe crazy, I don’t know. Probably was. I just knew I couldn’t stay there any longer, and down here, away from everyone, I thought maybe I’d find a way to—to want to—to want _ something _again. Something more than what I let myself have. I think I was maybe still punishing myself a little when I came home. Maybe not a little, I don’t know. For Bucky, for the War, for—for a lot of things, I guess.”

He scanned the water again, but couldn’t discern anything. Still, Shellhead was there, he just knew it. He just maybe wasn’t sure Steve meant it, what he said about last night. But, Steve had meant it. He just wasn’t sure how to get Shellhead to understand when he wasn’t sure _ he _could truly explain his actions.

“Truth is, I didn’t know how to be happy, anymore, not after the War. Not without Bucky and the two of us like we were,” Steve said. “Not without something to fight, and God, did I still want something to fight, Shellhead, I’ll tell you that. You can’t just turn it off like that, even though I kept telling myself, I should be happy there’s no more War, shouldn’t I? And I was, but…there were so many times I just wanted to hit something. Anything. Used to go do some boxing, did I tell you that? Three dollars a bout, five if I won. I won a lot, but that wasn’t why I did it,” he paused, rolling his lip between his teeth and sucking in a breath. “Then, I saw the ad looking for merchant sailors. Adventure of a lifetime, it promised. No kidding, right?” he said with a huff.

“You’re really going to make me say all this to the water, huh?” Steve called out, jerking his chin up as he looked out over the waves. “You know, as often as Bucky said I liked the sound of my own voice, I gotta say, I’m getting kind of tired of talking to myself here, Shellhead.”

Steve waited, looking around, but Shellhead wasn’t deigning to make an appearance this morning. 

“Fine. Stay down there,” Steve said with a note of exasperation tinging his voice. “If you’re gonna be like that…just…look, the truth is…the truth is,” he tried again, sucking in a breath, “I wanted what happened last night. I wanted it, Shellhead, God help me, I did. I’d been thinking about it for a while. About you and…and me. Like, uh. Like that. Well, not like that, exactly, because I didn’t know, but, well. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Still nothing. Steve’s certainty that he wasn’t just shouting at a few silverfish wavered a bit, but then his eye caught on something, just a shadow. Could be a cloud overhead, sure. But, it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Relief rushed through him. Relief and no small amount of excitement, he could admit, as he felt his heart skip a beat and his breath catch in his throat. Ah, Shellhead, he thought with a warm fondness, I knew you couldn’t stay away. He rolled his lips together to keep from grinning.

“I know what anyone would say about it, and I reckon some part of me will be saying those things to myself no matter what,” Steve admitted, “but I don’t regret it, Shellhead, I don’t. It was—God, it was better than I ever could have imagined. No wonder the Church doesn’t want you to do that. You’d never think of anything else, would ya?” Steve did let a grin slip out at that thought. 

He clapped his hands together, then let the smile fall away, his face settling into what Bucky called his ‘thinking look.’ Stevie’s thinking again, everyone take cover. Steve smiled a bit at the memory of Bucky’s voice sounding in his head, a bittersweet pang making his breath hitch.

“I don’t want to live my life not doing the things I want to do, even if everything isn’t exactly the way I’d want it, I suppose is what I mean,” Steve continued, his voice dipping low and soft. He wasn’t sure if he was even talking to Shellhead as much as himself anymore, but it felt like it needed to be said. 

“My best friend isn’t who he was before the War. Probably none of us are, but him more than others. I spent a lot of time blaming myself for that. Maybe fairly, maybe not, I can’t say I know for sure these days. But, he’s alive. I’m alive. We still have each other, and maybe it isn’t going to be what it was or what I thought it would be, when I thought about the two of us after the War, but it can still be something good,” Steve told him. He could make out a little bit of the red and gold now, glinting off the sun where it lit the water. He smiled, wrapping his hands together, his jaw tightening as he tried to think of what it was he wanted to say. 

“I’ve spent too much time regretting what I didn’t let myself do, what I couldn’t do, _ shouldn’t _ do, seeing only the parts of my life that were missing or messed up,” Steve began, picking his words carefully. It seemed important, to explain himself to Shellhead. He owed his friend that, true enough, but he wanted to say it, too. He wanted Shellhead to know how important all of this—how important _ Shellhead _\--was to him. 

“All of this—well, you, really…guess it was always you, Shellhead. I didn’t want what little time I got with you to be something else I looked back on and wished I’d—wished I’d let myself want something _ more _. Have something more. Without—without worrying so damn much about whether I deserve it or not,” Steve told him. “I’m not sure if that makes sense or not, but I guess what it comes down to is that I’m glad last night happened, Shellhead. I’m glad. Really glad. Maybe it was crazy. Probably was. But, I’m glad, Shellhead. It was…well, it was something else, I’ll tell you that,” he smiled, swiping a hand over his mouth and ducking his head a bit with a hot spike of embarrassment at the admission.

Honestly, Steve expected Shellhead to have appeared by now. He usually did, whenever Steve called to him, and even if he was worried that Steve was upset about the night’s events, it wasn’t like him to just ignore Steve, unless…but, no, surely that couldn’t be….though, it wasn’t as if Steve had much experience with anything like that. Or, _ any _ experience, really. How would he even know if he’d messed something up or not done something he was supposed to do? What if—God, what if Shellhead hadn’t wanted that to happen, Steve thought with a sudden rush of horror. What if Steve had taken advantage of Shellhead’s friendship by asking for something that maybe Shellhead didn’t really want to give? Looking back, Steve had really only been thinking of what he wanted, hadn’t he? His worries, his objections, his needs, his desires, all about him. What if last night made it harder on Shellhead when Steve left? What if that was why his friend was being so reticent this morning? 

“You don’t regret it, do you, Shellhead?” Steve asked with a sort of breathless nervousness at the sudden thought. “Is that why you…I—I mean, you’d have said if you didn’t want to, right? Did I…did I do something wrong or—”

A splash cut him off. Just to his left, behind one of the larger rocks whose algae-covered top was just visible at low tide. Shellhead’s head appeared, then his eyes. He hovered there, lolling in time with the waves, just out of reach. 

“Hi,” Steve said, blinking at Shellhead as he felt a flush creep over his skin. 

Eloquent, Rogers. Very eloquent, Steve thought to himself with a flash of annoyance at himself. Not that he could entirely blame himself. It was, after all, the first time Steve had seen him since the night before, and it didn’t take much to make Steve’s mind want to remind him of everything that happened. His skin heated, a nervous, jittery energy thrumming through him at the rush of memories, and the rest of his body was remembering, too. Getting tongue-tied would soon be the least of his problems. 

Of course, none of that mattered if he had misread things last night or done something he ought not have. How was he even supposed to know what Shellhead liked? What if, Steve wondered with a sour twist to his stomach, he had done something wrong? It wasn’t as if he really knew what he was doing anyway, and certainly not with someone like Shellhead.

“Are you mad with me, Shelhead? If I did something wrong, I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to, Shellhead, I swear. I just—I haven’t, I mean…” he stammered, breaking off as an enormous bubble of doubt and recrimination seemed to fill his chest, pushing all the air out. “Did you not like it?”

Shellhead ducked under the water and resurfaced just in front of Steve. He pushed himself up on his tentacles until he was almost Steve’s height, one hand taking Steve’s in his own and the other cupping Steve’s cheek. He was so close now, hands on Steve, his eyes intent, silken tentacles swirling between them, and Steve could barely think of anything except what had transpired the night before. He sucked in a sharp breath, and Shellhead’s gaze turned tender and knowing. He cocked his head a bit, eyes cresting into half-moons and patted Steve’s cheek. Then he rolled his eyes and flatted his mouth into a sharp downturn, eyebrows raising as he aimed a look at Steve.

“I’m being dumb?” Steve guessed at Shellhead’s pointed expression. Shellhead nodded, his face softening into a smile. “Well, I woke up and you weren’t anywhere around, so I thought—well. I thought a lot of things. Did you catch any of that?”

Shellhead nodded again, then pushed himself slowly up, eyes locked on Steve, and brushed his lips across Steve’s forehead. It was gentle, barely even a kiss, really, but Steve felt the tension drain out of him almost immediately. Steve ducked his head again, smiling a bit, a nervous, huffing laugh escaping him. 

“So…last night, it was…okay?” Steve asked before he could stop himself. Shellhead made a sort of chuffing sound, and one of Shellhead’s tentacles bopped him lightly on the side of his head. 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Steve said around a laugh, rubbing at the side of his head. “You liked it, huh?” Shellhead nodded again. “I liked it, too.” Shellhead answered with a soft smile that slowly turned into a low, wet snickering laugh. 

“Oh, you figured that out all on your own, did you?” Steve grinned. “Proud of yourself, are you?” Shellhead nodded and slunk down, floating around Steve in a slow circle. 

“Was that…was that how it always is?” Steve asked curiously. “Can’t believe it would be. People would talk about that, wouldn’t they? I mean, if they knew how it—how it felt. They’d—they’d talk about it, right? So, it can’t always be like that, I figure.”

Shellhead slowed his circling and pushed himself upright again, mouth pursed into a thoughtful look. He shook his head once, slowly, eyes on Steve, then reached up and wrapped his hand around Steve’s coin where it dangled from the chain around his neck. 

“Not always like that,” Steve said, swallowing thickly, a deep melancholy settling over him. “Must be you, then,” Steve added with a soft, lopsided smile. Shellhead gazed at him for a moment, then looked away, towards the beach where the_ Marvel _ sat waiting in the sun.

Would it really never be like that again, Steve wondered? Not the—the sex…_ of course _ , Shellhead was obviously _ made _ differently, Steve wasn’t an idiot. Of course, it wouldn’t feel like that again with someone else. But what about the feeling of being with Shellhead like that? That close, that intimate…he could feel that way with someone else, couldn’t he? Except, well, he hadn’t exactly found it before, had he? That comfort, that trust, that—that incredible _ tenderness _when Shellhead looked at him, it felt rare and precious beyond even the uniqueness of Shellhead. 

Not that Steve had been trying, exactly, but he hadn’t not been trying, either, and yet no one ever came close to making him feel like Shellhead did. Not just last night, but all the times he was with Shellhead. And that…well, that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Shellhead was different. Special. Clearly, he was special, of course he was, but Steve thought Shellhead would be special if he was just another man sitting next to Steve on a train or waiting in the work line back in Brooklyn, hoping to get picked for the day. I’d notice him, Steve thought. I’d see him, the way he sees me, even if I’m just Steve Rogers, some know-nothing Irish with barely ten dollars to his name, with scars you can see and those you can’t, with nightmares and dreams, he sees me, and I think I’d see him, too. Shellhead would be extraordinary, even then, at least to Steve, he was sure of it. How could he not be? The problem was, Shellhead wasn’t just another man on a train or waiting in the work line. And that…well, that was a problem.

Maybe this is all I get, this one time, Steve thought, his mind flashing again to the bird tucking his prizes away for safekeeping. It was more than many ever had, that was true enough. He should be happy with that. Hadn’t he just said he was going to stop being unhappy with what he was given? If this was what he got, then he wouldn’t trade it for a thousand nights that paled in comparison to last night. 

He couldn’t stay here. He had a life waiting for him back in New York. Friends. Family, really. Bucky. Nat. Clint. The twins, who arrived at Ellis Island with nothing but the clothes on their backs and who still thought they only had each other. Thor, who laughed loudly and easily and loved the same way, even as he fought on the opposite side of the War from that of his own brother. Sam, if Steve could ever convince him to leave the sea. Maybe even Peter, who said he had an aunt back in New York and was far too bright to languish down here. So much waited for him. So many possibilities. _ Something more _ , Steve thought, then looked at Shellhead and found himself reaching out for him, his mouth open to say…something. He wasn’t sure what he might have said in that moment, but Shellhead turned and pointed at the _ Marvel _, then back at the sea, chittering loudly and insistently. 

“Time to go?” Steve asked, his throat clicking tightly around the words. Shellhead nodded, his face solemn. Steve looked away, towards the sea. Towards home. “I guess it is, isn’t it?” Shellhead didn’t answer. Steve supposed it wasn’t really a question. 

Why was it so hard? This is what they had been working towards, wasn’t it? He looked over at Shellhead, who wasn’t looking at him, just staring down at his tentacles where they undulated in the water with a strangely hard expression on his face. If I don’t leave now, I won’t go, Steve thought to himself. The knowledge, and it _ was _knowledge, settled in his gut like a stone. Steve hesitated a moment longer, then sloshed up to the shore, not risking a glance at Shellhead, though he heard him maneuvering through the water behind him. 

“Better get a move on then. Time’s a’wasting,” Steve said. His voice shook. He wondered if Shellhead could hear it. Probably. He felt a tentacle brush over his hand. Lightly, barely a touch, but he felt it. Steve closed his eyes and drew in a hard, cold breath, then moved towards the boat. He didn’t look back, and felt, more than saw, Shellhead come up behind him and grip the other side of the boat. 

They got the boat into the water with no small amount of effort, loaded down as it was with supplies. Steve pushed and Shellhead pulled, using those powerful tentacles of his to latch on and tug it through the sand. Steve hopped in as soon as the water hit his thighs and started to row with the mismatched oars while Shellhead pushed the boat through the waves. 

It was surprisingly easy with Shellhead’s help, Steve quickly realized. Water splashed into the boat as she tossed against the waves at the break point, but with Shellhead propelling them, it didn’t take much in the way of contribution from Steve to get them past the rock-strewn underwater ledge that broke the waves as they roared in towards shore and into open water, where things calmed enough for the boat to bob along fairly steadily. 

Steve paused with his rowing long enough to dig into the stash of supplies for a sip of water and a hat he had made out of the same fronds he used for the sail. Already, he could feel the heat of the sun bristling over his scalp. The little pump Shellhead designed was merrily chugging the little bit of water out of the bottom of the boat, Steve noticed with a grin. 

“It’s working!” Steve called over his shoulder. A tentacle thumped at the side of the boat, probably Shellhead’s way of saying, ‘Of course it’s working, dummy, I designed it.’ Steve smiled. 

“Wasn’t doubting you, Shellhead, just impressed,” he added as he went back to rowing. He felt the boat rock as Shellhead let go and saw him gliding along beside it, occasionally darting underneath or disappearing for some time, though never long. When the island was a speck in the distance, Shellhead popped up and bent over the side of the boat, pointing at the mast. 

“Guess we could give it a try,” Steve said, pulling the oars in and reaching for the rope, a part of his hammock at one time, that raised the sail. To Steve’s surprise, the sail caught the wind rather nicely, puffing out, but holding together. He sat back and admired it for a moment, then turned to Shellhead, who bobbed along next to the boat and was grinning himself. 

“She’s a right good ship you built, Shellhead,” Steve beamed. Shellhead sniffed in agreement, but Steve could see a bit of color splash over his cheeks as he ducked his head. 

Steve looked around. All he could see in any direction was water. Even the island had faded from view. The sea appeared vast and unending. He shivered a bit, even in the heat. 

“Not sure what our chances are, Shellhead,” Steve sighed, reaching for another drink, then deciding against it. He needed the supplies to last. 

A moment later, Steve felt a wet hand cover his and give it a light squeeze. He looked over at Shellhead, who husked out a chittering, crooning noise that seemed to reverberate through his chest. Steve wasn’t sure what Shellhead was trying to communicate, but it sounded a bit like an admonishment. 

“Too early to get maudlin, eh?” Steve guessed. “I’m Irish, ye wee fish. Maudlin’s in our blood,” he said, letting the accent he tried so hard to get rid of slip in. Shellhead’s eyes went almost comically wide, making Steve laugh and slap a hand atop his thigh with a whoop of delight at Shellhead’s expression. “Ma made sure I could talk without it. Said I’d never amount to anything, if I couldn’t speak proper English. ‘No one’s gonna hire you if you sound like you fell off the boat yesterday, Stevie,’ that’s what she’d say. I can speak the Gaeilge, too,” Steve said. “They banned it in the schools, but I taught Bucky some anyway. We said it was our secret language.”

He tried some from memory. A poem his Ma used to recite sometimes. Shellhead listened with rapt attention, then trilled loudly at the end, clearly surprised, but pleased, at this newfound ability of Steve’s.

“You should hear Bucky, though,” Steve told Shellhead, who swam along beside the Marvel with a look of avid interest on his face. “He’s just as Irish as I am, but he can do a high society accent just as pretty as you please. And Nat, his wife, she speaks all kinds of languages. Her family came over from Russia. They were fur traders, or so she says. If you can believe her, they just walked right over and claimed an island for the Czar way up north in Alaska, then kept right on walking, I guess, and made their way across Canada to New York. I don’t know if I believe all that, to be honest. She also once said she’s the illegitimate daughter of Alexander Romanov, the Russian Emperor, and she fled an arranged marriage. Nat’s hard to get a read on and tends to let other people do the talking. Kind of like you, Shellhead,” he added with a smile and a nod. 

“I wish I’d gotten a chance to learn more languages. Wish I understood yours, the way you understand mine,” Steve sighed, mouth flattening. “It’s different, that’s for sure, your language. But some languages are like that, aren’t they? Different. I know you’re saying stuff, I just don’t have the faintest idea what. It’s nice, though, all your sounds. I’ve got some of them down, I think, like when you’re happy, which is sort of a high-pitched hum that kind of has a vibration to it. Or when I’m doing something wrong on the _ Marvel, _and you’re about two seconds from grabbing whatever it is out of my hand and make that sort of snorting, gravelly sound. See? I pay attention!” Steve laughed at Shellhead’s narrowed eyes and raised eyebrow.

“Lots of languages are different like yours, though. I didn’t know that for a long time. I remember reading in one of those Adventures I was telling you about when Tony Stark met this tribe on some mountain in Spain, and they spoke by whistling. Whistling, Shellhead! Like this,” Steve said, then demonstrated a short whistle. 

“Stark said it was because they lived in the mountains with these big ravines in between them, and so, if you shouted, you know, it’s hard to understand, but whistling would carry. Isn’t that something?” Steve shook his head, leaning back in the boat while the sail billowed above him. “That was his last one. The last Adventure, then the War Department called him back to come help. And then, well. Always surprised me that he would go in something as mundane as lost at sea, not after everything he’s faced. Guess that’s something we share, huh? Lost at sea. Never thought I’d share much of anything with someone like Tony Stark,” Steve shrugged. “‘Cept I have you, so I’m not really lost.”

Shellhead’s tentacles thrashed around under the boat, making hollow, thumping noises, and he flattened his mouth into a thin line, a frown furrowing his brow. His fist hit the side of the boat hard enough that Steve had the terrible thought that the wood might splinter.

“Shellhead, what—” Steve started, but Shellhead just shook his head and closed his eyes, almost as if in pain, before disappearing altogether. “Hey!” Steve called out. “Where are you going?”

Shellhead didn’t answer, of course, but he did appear just starboard, several lengths of the boat away. He was moving about in the waves, clearly agitated. 

“I know, I know, you and your…whatever it is about Stark. He’d have liked you! I don’t know why you’re so--” Steve said, tossing a hand up in the air as Shellhead ducked under the water again. “Fine! Sorry, I won’t—I won’t mention him again, okay?” Shellhead swam over and slunk down by the front of the boat. He made a harsh, snorting sound, almost like disbelief, though Steve didn’t think that was quite right, and gave Steve an apologetic look.

Steve stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You sure are weird about him, Shellhead. But, okay. No more Stark talk. Want to hear about the time me and Bucky went down to see them install the statue of Washington in Union Square?”

Shellhead nodded, if not quite with his usual enthusiasm. Still, he swam closer, until he was nearly at Steve’s elbow and looked up at him with interest. 

“Okay, well, there were thousands of people there,” Steve began, scratching at his jaw as he tried to remember. “This was ’56, I think. Just about more people than I’d seen in one place at that point. The artist, Brown, his studio was in Brooklyn. I tried to go by there one day with some of my drawings. Thought maybe I could apprentice or something, but they wouldn’t let me past the door. Stupid, really, someone like me, when he’s a real artist, trained in Italy and everything,” Steve said with a shrug. Shellhead snorted derisively and thumped a hand on Steve’s chest, then gestured firmly with it in the air. 

“Not impressed by European training, huh? You’re a tough crowd, Shellhead,” Steve grinned. “He’s real talented. I think you’d like his work, if you saw it.” Shellhead tapped a finger on Steve’s chest and rolled his eyes. “First monument I design, it’s for you, how about?” Steve offered with a small smile. Shellhead cocked his head, a soft smile forming. “You’d like that, huh? Poseidon, maybe?” Shellhead wagged his head back and forth noncommittally, then nudged at Steve for him to keep going with his story.

“Right, right. Well, anyway, they put a fence around it, you know. The statue. Bucky said that was on account of him trying to climb it, because he wanted to ride double with Washington. I don’t think it really was, though,” Steve added with a slight frown.

Shellhead smiled, warm and bright and made that chuffing sound that meant he was laughing. The sight did something to Steve’s stomach that he wanted to put aside as hunger, but didn’t think it really was. Something more, Steve thought again, the thought bright and warm, and tucked it away.

The days quickly fell into a routine. Steve talked. A lot. Stories about him and Bucky, mostly, but sometimes about other things he remembered, even just silly things, like the way the hot corn the street vendors sold smelled and how good he remembered it tasting when he had enough money to afford it, how beautiful Green-Wood Cemetery looked in the winter, how he remembered when the city was overrun with swine roaming the streets, scavenging for trash when he was little, until the cholera made the city chase them out and then the wealthier folks decided that the Irish and the coloreds could pick up the trash just as easy as the pigs. Anything, and everything, it didn’t seem to matter to Shellhead, who listened to it all like it was the most fascinating tale imaginable. 

Steve ate when he got hungry, rowed when the wind died, even singing as he did to pass the time. Shellhead appeared to quite like that, so Steve found himself digging through his memories to find songs to sing as they drifted. Lullabies his Ma would sing. Irish ditties Bucky brought back from the pub. Marching songs they sang during the War. Didn’t seem to matter, Shellhead enjoyed them all. 

Shellhead would disappear every now and then to eat, or keep lookout, Steve wasn’t always sure, but he always returned by nightfall. It took awhile for Steve to fall asleep, particularly at first. The darkness was nearly absolute, with just a few stars and the moon giving light. There was something deeply unnerving about the sea at night, so inky black that Steve couldn’t tell where it stopped and the sky began. It was eerily quiet out here, too, with just the water lapping at the boat and Shellhead occasioning splashing or thumping a tentacle at the hull.

“Never thought I’d be afraid of the dark,” Steve had said as he peered over the side of the boat at Shellhead that first night. “You’ll stay, won’t you, Shellhead?”

Shellhead had nodded and reached up to brush the hair back from Steve’s forehead, not quite catching Steve’s eye, but his gaze had roved over Steve’s face with an almost covetous look, like he was trying to memorize whatever he saw there in the shadows. 

Steve had thanked him, or he thought he remembered doing that, anyway, then tried to sleep, mostly drifting in and out, fitfully tossing and turning without really sleeping, but every time he opened his eyes, Shellhead was there. Finally, Steve had slept, and dreamt of searching for someone he couldn’t find, calling out to them, finally whistling for them, but nothing seemed to work. Steve woke with a start that second morning to the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon and Shellhead clinging to the side of the boat, his head lolling towards Steve as he slept. 

The days all sort of bled into each other after that, Steve thought as he rowed on what he was pretty sure was the evening of the seventh day. He was rowing a lot more now, or relying on Shellhead. The sail was long gone, thanks to too much wind and sun, though Steve had been rather proud of how his sail stood up to the elements those first few days. It was hard work, the rowing, particularly with the oars not being a matched set, but he couldn’t ask Shellhead to do all the work, though as the days wore on, he had little choice but to rely more and more on Shellhead. 

Not that Shellhead seemed to mind. In fact, Steve thought his friend rather enjoyed it in a way. Shellhead was, at his core, someone who liked to take care of others, or so Steve assumed. Shellhead was what Steve’s Ma would have called one of the helpers, and he thought that was about right. Granted, he only had his own experience with Shellhead to go by, but he thought it was true, and he was pretty good at reading people most of the time. Shellhead was a helper, and thank the good Lord for that, Steve thought to himself. He certainly wouldn’t be here if Shellhead was the kind to look the other way. 

Of course, Steve thought with a slight grin, Bucky would say that was _ Steve’s _ worst and best quality, too. Not being able to look the other way. That’s how he ended up on the front lines of a war that split the nation and how he ended up nearly drowning in the middle of a place he barely knew. It was also, he supposed, how he came to meet Shellhead, so helping when he could got him this far, and he figured him and the universe or God or whatever it was out there were square now, because he wouldn’t trade this for anything, really, strange as that was to think as he floated along, slowly losing hope that he would ever find rescue. 

No ship had appeared, not once. Though, Steve had mistaken a low-hanging cloud for the puff of sails in the distance around the fourth day and nearly fallen out of the boat in his excitement. He was hoarse from talking and singing, and tired. So tired he could hardly think straight. Between the heat, the rowing and the lack of fresh food, their little adventure was taking its toll. Shellhead kept giving him grim, distressed looks, though he was off somewhere this morning. Probably feeding, Steve assumed, though he missed having his friend around as he rowed. It always seemed to help to pass the time, just to have Shellhead near. 

The water was getting low. That was the issue, Steve knew. He had been careful, drinking only what he felt was strictly necessary and using the fruit to supplement it, and it rained once, which he carefully collected in a couple of the empty casks as best he could. Still, he knew they were fast approaching the day when he would have to decide to turn back. 

Not exactly a choice Steve relished having to make, though it looked more and more likely that he would have to, whether he liked it or not. He sighed wearily, then looked up as he caught sight of a familiar splash just off the bow. Shellhead’s head popped up, his face breaking into a rather pleased-with-himself look when he caught sight of Steve. He chittered a bit, not quite excitedly, but Steve could almost imagine him giving Steve a bit of a go in some droll tone while he teased out whatever it was he wanted to share with Steve. Because there was clearly something, Steve knew that much. 

“What’s got you so excited? Find some pirate treasure?” Steve asked, tucking the oars up under his arms with a grin. 

Shellhead rolled his mouth a bit, then hefted up two enormous crabs, each hanging by one tentacle. Each had two large pincers and six spindly legs, making them look a bit more like some kind of sea spider than crabs. Shellhead dropped them unceremoniously over the side of the boat before Steve could say anything, making Steve jerk backwards as the crabs scuttled around the bottom of the boat, intent on escape, perhaps by clawing through the hull, Steve could only assume. Shellhead wasted no time in slamming his tentacle down on top of each of them in rapid succession. The both went still a moment later, once they apparently realized they were quite dead. 

Shellhead snorted out a huffing laugh as Steve slowly unwound himself from his crouch. “A little warning next time?” he suggested with a scowl. Shellhead grinned. “So, dinner is served I take it?” 

Shellhead pushed himself up and leaned over the side of the boat, spreading his hands wide. He pointed at the crabs, then up at Steve. Shellhead often brought his catches to share, but Steve had never seen anything quite like these particular crabs. To be fair, Steve knew you could eat crab raw, and they did look pretty meaty. He could certainly use the energy, and he trusted Shellhead to know better than he did what could be eaten. Too many things in the sea would cheerfully reward your hunting prowess by killing you if you tried to eat them. 

“Well,” Steve began, raising his eyebrows as he looked down at the crabs with their neatly cracked shells, “I reckon I’ve eaten a lot worse. Back in Brooklyn, we weren’t exactly eating like kings, let’s just say, though Ma did better by us than what a lot of folks had. Lots of kids ended up begging,” Steve continued, “stealing, scavenging for garbage scraps, whatever they could find. Scott-- he was in my regiment--he grew up on the streets from about the time he was twelve, or so he reckoned it. Best pickpocket you’ve ever seen, Shellhead,” Steve said as he peeled open the broken shell of one of the crabs. He chewed as he talked, not that Shellhead seemed to mind. 

“You’d never even know you were missing something, and sure enough, he’d have it. ‘Course, he never stole from us, not really. He was just showing off,” Steve said quickly. “He was in some gang back in the city when he was young, on account of he could fit into all kinds of places when he was a kid, scrawny as he was. Funny guy, though, Scott. Talked a lot. You’d like him.”

Shellhead cocked his head at him, his face going thoughtful for a moment while he watched Steve eat and used his powerful tentacles to push the boat along. The crab was actually pretty tasty, Steve could admit. He shoved another bite of the sweet, tender meat into his mouth, and grinned at Shellhead as he wiped the juice from his chin. Shellhead rolled his eyes, but looked back at Steve, his face soft and pleased, like watching Steve eat was some kind of thrill. Steve told him about Scott, about how he had gotten caught breaking in to some fancy house uptown and been offered the choice of prison or the Army and decided to “volunteer” for the Army, a choice he had lamented quite often. 

“He was stealing food, which, yeah, I know, it’s still thieving, but…” Steve sighed as he finished sucking the meat out of one of the crab legs, leaning back, his stomach actually full for the first time in awhile. “Everyone was hungry. All the time. I can probably count on my hands how many times I’ve actually been full in my life. Now, I can add one more, I guess, thanks to you, Shellhead,” he added with a deferential nod towards his friend. He patted his stomach and laid back, letting Shellhead push them along through the waves. Shellhead looked at him a long time, shaking his head with a sad, wistful smile. 

“It wasn’t just me, it was everyone. Well, everyone I knew, anyway. Everyone was always hungry, always worrying about the next meal. In fact, there were so many hungry kids in the city without parents, they didn’t have places for them. They put a bunch of them on trains and sent them out west, on account of I guess the people there needed kids,” Steve said as he absently knotted and untied a length of rope over and over again. 

“Remember I told you about Peter?” Steve asked. Shellhead nodded. “After Peter’s parents died, there was just his aunt, and she was elderly at that. Didn’t really have much for him, but she put him in one of the orphanages so he could get at least a daily meal and paid his allotment for as long as she could, I guess. But, if you stop paying, then the state makes them a ward. Lots of people, they couldn’t pay, you know? Ma said people were always leaving the little babies outside the rich folks’ houses up on Fifth Avenue. One time, Bucky’s Ma heard him say he was going to go up there and see if he could get adopted, and she boxed his ears real good,” Steve said with a slight smile. 

“Looks like a turtle, that one,” Steve stopped his story and pointed at the cloud floating by overhead in the graying sky. Shellhead turned his face up to the look, then waggled his head back and forth in apparent agreement. 

“Anyway, Peter said when the train stopped, the nuns got them all out and took them to this church in the middle of town, and all these moms and dads came to look them over, see which orphans they wanted,” Steve continued. “’Cept Peter, see, he didn’t like the looks of the people who picked him. Said they just wanted someone to work their farm, not like a real kid, you know? So, he ran away, all of eleven, mind you, and somehow made it down to New Orleans and onto a ship bound for Barbados, which is how he got himself hired on with Stark Trading Company. Pretty impressive for just a kid, right?” Shellhead nodded, once, slowly, a grimace spasming over his face before it was quickly wiped away. 

“He’s smart, Peter is. Always tinkering with things back on the ship, kind of like you, Shellhead,” Steve told him. “Sam just about had to throw him in the lifeboat. Kept insisting he was staying, too. Going to go down with the ship, like he’s the damn Captain. Braver than the Captain, that’s for sure. Just think, you could’ve been stuck with two of us. You think I talk a lot? You should hear him go on,” Steve chuckled. “Won’t shut up. Whenever Sam got tired of it, he’d send Peter up the riggings to the crow’s nest. You should’ve seen him climb, Shellhead! No fear, I’m telling you, didn’t matter if the ship was sitting still like this or listing wildly, he’d just climb, easy as you swim.”

Shellhead hummed, that happy buzzing hum that Steve liked. He was smiling a bit now as he listened to Steve talk. Steve wondered if maybe Shellhead could hear the affection in his voice when he talked of Peter or if it was something else. 

“I was thinking about asking Peter and Sam if they would come back to New York with me,” Steve said. “Peter thinks his aunt might still be alive. Sam’s never been, but he has a bit of the wanderlust in him, and I think maybe he’d come. He was in the Corps d’Afrique during the War. Well, first the Louisian Native Guard, which was mostly free men of color from around New Orleans. That’s where he’s from. New Orleans. General Butler had it occupied at the time, and he put it together. Sam said they mostly dug and chopped wood. Not exactly what he wanted to be doing, so he ended up in the Corps d’Afrique when that formed out of the old Native Guard. He was in the heavy artillery unit,” Steve explained as Shellhead’s interest seemed to be suddenly piqued by whatever it was Steve was saying that fascinated him, which God only knew what that was. 

Shellhead tapped at the tops of the waves, his tentacles making thumping sounds under the boat, which sort of surprised Steve, since he’d talked about Sam before. He didn’t think he had ever actually mentioned that Sam was a negro, though, so maybe that somehow interested Shellhead for whatever unfathomable reason. Would someone like Shellhead even make such a distinction between humans? It was an arresting thought, Steve realized, since so much of his life was defined by those supposed distinctions. Even most of the people who fought against slavery wouldn’t go so far as to say that the color of your skin or your origin didn’t matter. Maybe it took someone like Shellhead to see the sameness, Steve thought with no small amount of wonder. Not for the first time, he thought to himself how much his world could use someone like Shellhead. Bit of perspective would certainly do a lot of good, he figured, even though it wasn’t meant to be. 

“You want to hear more about that?” Steve asked, tilting his head to the side as he watched Shellhead’s avid look that bordered on almost desperately interested. Huh. Well, okay, then, Steve thought. “Sam always used to say that he meant to join the brigade band and somehow ended up in artillery,” Steve remembered with a laugh. 

“Did you know the Corps d’Afrique actually had an engineering Corps, too? I didn’t know that. Probably most people didn’t,” Steve said, as Shellhead bounced around, making little encouraging chitterous noises in the back of his throat. Steve smiled at Shellhead’s obvious enthusiasm. “They did! Guess I shouldn’t assume anything, right? Wrong of me, isn’t it? I know. I know, Shellhead. It’s hard sometimes, to remember not to be that way, but then I’m around Sam some, and I think, how could anyone think someone like Sam is somehow not as good as anyone else just because he looks different? People’d say the same thing about you, and you’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, I think. Anyway, Sam told me about it. The engineering corps. They built Bailey’s Dam down on the Red River, which saved the Navy’s Mississippi River Squadron. Captain Rhodes was in charge of the Engineering Corps back then. He’s got command of the _ Man O’War _now, I heard,” Steve said. 

To his surprise, Shellhead reacted to that bit of news with more excitement than Steve would have ever anticipated. It wasn’t even a particularly exciting retelling, Steve didn’t think, but Shellhead was having some kind of fit over it. He grabbed for Steve, shaking him a bit, probably harder than he meant to, and made a series of rapid-fire, watery chirping noises that tumbled from him as he nearly bounced in his place floating along beside the Marvel, basically vibrating with excitement. He was splashing so much, he was rocking the little boat. His skin was flush, his eyes bright, and he kept pounding at the side of the boat with his tentacles. 

“Hey, hey, what’s got you all riled up?” Steve asked. Realization seemed to dawn on Shellhead, and he let go of his grip on Steve, dropping back down into the water by the boat, but he clutched at his blue stone necklace and made a series of little hiccoughing noises that seemed to Steve like the equivalent of someone repeating over and over again that they were fine when they demonstrably were not. Steve frowned, unsure if he should continue, but Shellhead bumped his shoulder and looked at him almost pleadingly. 

“You like that story? Well, okay—calm down, would ya, you’re going to sink us, if you go on like that,” Steve admonished lightly. “Okay, well…let’s see…Captain Rhodes, he’s a War hero, alright. Navy was always more integrated than the Army. They never really had colored divisions like we did, but he’s the first to make it that high, as far as I know. Lincoln himself commissioned Rhodes after he stole a Confederate steamboat loaded with ordinance and supplies from right under the noses of the rebels at Fort Sumter by pretending to be a Confederate Captain. Even put on the uniform and everything. From a distance, no one could really tell, not with the hat and all, and the way Sam told it, Rhodes had memorized all the signals the Rebs were using. The crew was all slaves, so they didn’t mind. He got out of the harbor, and the Union blockade is there waiting, right? And so, they’re getting ready to fire when Rhodes raises the white flag and supposedly shouts, calm as you please, ‘Good morning, sir! I have brought you some of the old United States guns!’ Pretty damn gutsy, I’d say. Anyway, Lincoln was so impressed, he made him a Captain, and now, I guess that’s how he ended up with the _ Man O’War _. She’s one of those new steam-powered ironclads, I hear.” 

Shellhead’s tentacles splashed around him, and he grinned in obvious delight, then dove under the water, only to resurface a short distance away. Under he went again, popping up next to the _ Marvel _ , while Steve laughed and shook his head at the antics. Shellhead pounded both hands on the side of the _ Marvel _and looked at Steve with an expression of hopeful anticipation. 

“So…a bit of naval gossip is what it takes to excite you, huh? Sorry, Shellhead, that’s all I know. Sam’s the one with all the news,” Steve said, feeling a pang of regret as he caught Shellhead’s crestfallen expression. “Last I can recall that he mentioned anything about it, the _ Man O’War _ was patrolling off the coast of Virginia,” Steve finished with an apologetic grimace. “What about that’s so interesting to you, huh? Just when I think I’ve gotten you figured out, you surprise me, Shellhead.”

Shellhead frowned, opened his mouth, then looked down and clutched at his blue stone necklace. His hand seemed to almost reflexively open and close around it, but he finally dragged his gaze back up to Steve and sighed, sounding a bit frustrated, before he seemed to force himself to relax, his eyes going soft and crinkling at the corners. He patted Steve’s hand, stroking his knuckles almost absently against the skin there. They hadn’t, not since that night, of course. It had been a one-time thing, Steve knew. Him leaving, the rum, the rush of finishing the _ Marve _ l and having a chance, all of it came together for that one night, and--and he knew, for many reasons, it wouldn’t happen again. _ Couldn’t _ happen again. But times like this, Steve thought about it. At night, he thought about it, while he drifted through the deep blackness. When Shellhead laughed or smiled, Steve thought about it. When he turned a certain way and the sun caught the red and gold of his tentacles, Steve thought about it. 

So, yeah, he thought about it, alright. He would probably be thinking about it for the rest of his life, but if that were the case, and he suspected it was, was that so bad, really? He had more than what a lot of people ever got. Something extraordinary. Something beautiful. Something _ more _ . More than Steve--stick thin, sickly, poor and Irish, like God wanted to give him a challenge in life--ever thought he would have. He wondered if Shellhead thought about that night, too, or if what they shared hadn’t meant nearly as much to someone like Shellhead as it did to Steve. Maybe that kind of thing was fairly common for Shellhead, for all Steve knew, but he didn’t think so, not really. He was pretty sure it meant something to Shellhead, too, Steve said to himself, his mind flashing to the beautiful, shimmering shell with its whirls of colors like something out of a dream. No, it meant something to Shellhead, too. Maybe not the same something, the secret something that Steve wouldn’t even let himself think, but it meant _ something _. 

Pushing his wayward thoughts to the back of his mind, Steve reached for one of the water casks and pulled the plug out, though when upended it, only a few drops leaked out into his mouth. Shellhead gave him a pointed look. Over the past few days, Shellhead had grown increasingly concerned, often holding up one of the empty water casks with his tentacle and shaking it at Steve with a high-pitched sound of distress, as if he shouted about it enough, Steve would finally give in. In the back of Steve’s mind, he wondered at what point Shellhead would just turn the boat around whether he had Steve’s leave or not. Steve wondered if maybe that wasn’t what he was waiting for, Shellhead to take the decision from his hands, because then...then it would be okay. 

Steve talked some more as they drifted in the breeze. His little palm frond sail was largely in tatters by now, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry too much about it. He talked about nothing, really. It was a meandering tale, he knew, and his voice was as cracked and brittle as his skin after all these days in the sun. Everything hurt. He was exhausted. Thirstier than he had been in a long time. He was having trouble concentrating, and he dozed more frequently, which he knew were not good signs. Shellhead seemed worried, too, often placing a hand over Steve’s forehead and urging him to eat more, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. He knew that, too, wasn’t the best sign. 

Slowly, Shellhead propelled them through the water. Steve wasn’t sure if he had some destination in mind or just hoped that they would run into a ship, but he trusted Shellhead to know the sea better than he ever could. Steve leaned back against the curve of the ship’s bow and closed his eyes. The grayish haze of evening faded into darkness until what was behind his eyes was almost the same as what was in front of them. He’d stopped fearing the nights, though. They were cool, and that was a blessed relief. Shellhead was there, and even on the few nights when the winds tossed the little boat, Steve hadn’t been afraid, not exactly. Shellhead wouldn’t let him drown, he was sure of it, though a part of him thought that was probably unfair of him to think. Still, it settled him. Comforted him. And strangely, he was sure it was true. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere, he trusted that Shellhead would catch him before he fell into the deep. If that was to be his fate, he thought it would likely be both of theirs, and that thought was really the one that brought his decision to a head. 

He couldn’t go on. He knew that. It was too risky, for both of them. He had already asked more than enough of Shellhead, more than anyone should rightly give. He couldn’t ask him to risk his own life trying to protect Steve from what was lining up to be a fool’s errand. Tomorrow, Steve told himself. Tomorrow, they would turn back. Maybe they could try again one day. When he accumulated more stores of water. Maybe. It was hard to remember why leaving was so important now, when he was alone at night with nothing but his traitorous thoughts and Shellhead. Maybe there was some other island out here that would provide shelter and maybe even fresh water. You sure have a lot of maybes at night, Rogers, Steve thought to himself. Nights were good for that, though, he thought. Possibilities, dreams, they belonged in the night, didn’t they? Didn’t hurt any to think on them, even if Steve knew they were ultimately impossible. He was, in all likelihood, going to die of thirst on that island, but for a while, anyway, he could lay here and think other, better thoughts. 

One of Shellhead’s tentacles tapped at his shoulder, and Steve looked over to find his friend watching him, a silent question on his face. 

“Just thinking, Shellhead,” Steve said with a slight sigh as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. “You ever lay awake at night sometimes and think things you can’t seem to let yourself think during the day?” 

Shellhead nodded, almost solemnly, Steve thought, and he figured his friend probably did a lot of that, being alone for however long he was alone before Steve rather dramatically fell into his life. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” Steve replied with a soft chuckle. “That big brain of yours probably thinks up all kinds of things, huh?” Again, Shellhead nodded, though this time, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, like he found Steve’s observations rather amusing in some way. Shellhead tapped a finger against his temple, and one of his tentacles slithered over the side of the boat and pointed at the little pump. It was quiet now, but Steve had seen how efficiently the invention worked, and he had to admit to being incredibly impressed. “The pump? What about it?” Steve frowned, then brightened. Setting the length of rope he had been fiddling with aside, Steve sat up a bit. “You mean you think about things like the pump! Like...other machines and things?”

Shellhead nodded, smiling somewhat proudly at Steve. Steve wasn’t sure if he was proud that he thought of such things or that Steve figured he out. Probably the latter, Steve thought with a grin. 

“Wow, Shellhead, I had no idea,” Steve said. “That’s amazing. Do you build them sometimes, too?” To this, Shellhead just shrugged and grimaced. “Hard to do out here, I guess,” Steve guessed, and Shellhead made a frustrated face. “Well, if your other ideas are anything like the pump, everyone back home would be really impressed, I’m telling you. It’s too bad, you being, ah,” Steve broke off, clearing his throat, “stuck out here and...all,” he finished lamely. 

Shellhead’s face sagged a moment, but he shook himself and seemed to recover quickly, flashing Steve a quick smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, or so Steve thought. It was too dark out now to really tell, even with the full moon above. 

“I was thinking,” Steve began, glancing quickly over at Shellhead, who seemed to be staring off at nothing, preoccupied with his own thoughts. “I was thinking that tomorrow, we head back.” 

There. He said it. He felt relief loosen the invisible band around his chest that he hadn’t even known was there. Shellhead’s shocked face pivoted towards Steve, his mouth opening, then closing a few times in some kind of pantomime of trying to figure out what to say. He finally managed a burst of wet, chirping noises that Steve took for some kind of effort at protest. 

“There’s not enough water to keep going, Shellhead,” Steve pointed out. Shellhead bit his lip and looked back, a frown deepening his features. “I can’t keep at this forever. We tried. It’s been, what, seven days and nothing?” Steve asked. Shellhead’s throat worked, but he didn’t respond. “Maybe we’ll try again, if we can. But...I think we have to turn back. You think so, too, you just wanted me to be the one to say it, I figure.”

Shellhead’s lips quirked up a bit at that, and he let out a long sigh, air puffing through the gills on his neck. He nodded at Steve, his expression seemingly apologetic, though he had nothing to apologize for. 

“Thank you. For this. For trying, I mean,” Steve said. He ran a hand through his hair and over his chin, scratching at the beard that was growing back in there, and looked over at Shellhead. 

Shelhead’s eyes were wide, his mouth tight, and he looked away as soon as Steve’s eyes fell on him. His shoulders seemed to sag, even his tentacles drooped. Shellhead shook his head, almost violently, and slammed his fists against the edge of the _ Marvel _, then shoved off and swam a few feet away, watching Steve with a twisted, bitter expression for a moment before he ducked down under the water. He reappeared a moment later next to the boat, near where Steve was sitting. He raised his eyes to Steve with a look of pleading that made Steve’s heart seem to constrict in his chest. 

“Hey, hey, no, Shellhead, don’t do that, now, come on! It’s not your fault this didn’t work,” Steve insisted. He scooted up and leaned over, until the little boat listed enough to bring him almost flush with Shellhead. “Shellhead. I mean it. Thank you,” Steve said again. “It means a lot that you tried. It’s not your fault there wasn’t a ship. God knows, I don’t blame you. You don’t think that, do you? The sea’s a big place. Bigger than I ever imagined. It would have been pure, dumb luck if we’d have been picked up. You probably know that better than I do, I’m willing to wager. Just because that big brain of yours can figure out how to repair a boat and build a pump and get us this far doesn’t mean even you can magically make a ship appear, so stop blaming yourself, if that’s what you’re doing, would you?” Steve cajoled in a low, urgent voice. Shellhead grimaced, his eyes closing. He looked almost pained. “I know you did everything you could. That’s all I could ever ask, and hey, look, we made it this far. That’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? Come on, Shellhead, look at me, would you?” 

Finally, Shellhead dragged his gaze back to Steve, his lip caught between his teeth. One hand was wrapped around Steve’s coin, and he reached up, his hand hovering for a moment as he hesitated, then stroked his fingers through Steve’s hair, just once, but it was enough. Steve felt a tremor run through him. His body remembered. His body remembered everything. It was all Steve could do not to melt into the touch, and that...well, that was probably going to be a problem, he figured, but it was a problem for tomorrow. Steve leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Shellhead’s, holding it there as his eyes fell closed. He let out a long, low breath through his nose, licked his cracked lips, and sighed heavily. After a while, Shellhead sagged against him, his hands threading through Steve’s hair, holding him close.

“I don’t...I don’t even know if I want to leave,” Steve husked out. 

Shellhead stilled, then slowly pulled back, his eyes bright on Steve. His face was tight and filled with something that looked a lot like despair, though the expression was gone so quickly that Steve thought he might have mistaken it in the low moonlight. Shellhead sank back down in the water a bit and laid his head on the edge of the Marvel, watching Steve with his usual interest, though there was something different about it tonight, like some pall clung to him that Steve didn’t understand, because shouldn’t Shellhead be happy they were going back, Steve thought, his brow furrowing into a frown, though he reclined back again, curling himself into the curve of the boat’s stern. 

Shellhead hummed, low and trilling, then let out a huff of air, a soft, yet strangely sad, smile on his lips. 

“How about a song?” Steve asked, since that was their usual routine at night, or at least, it had become their routine once Steve figured out that Shellhead liked the songs so much. Shellhead nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them with a fierce sort of intensity that was almost unnerving, Steve thought. It was just a song, like they’d done before, and it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be plenty of opportunity again back on the island. Still, he wanted to make Shellhead happy, and he knew his friend liked their little nightly ritual. 

“Okay, well...there’s one we sang a lot when we marched. One fella said it was British, but they stole it from the Irish, ‘cause I remember it from when I was little,” Steve said. “British were always stealing things, figured they’d take songs, too. Anyway, we were always marching. Marching or waiting, that’s what Army life is, Shellhead. That and the killing. It’s a goodish song, though. Everyone liked it. At least at first. We’d nearly shout it when we sang, always laughing, always loud. Proud, we were. Then the more the War went on, the more it changed, you know? Everyone got quieter. Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe there were just fewer voices, I don’t know.” 

Steve went quiet for a long moment, watching the stars as he floated. Shellhead didn’t say anything, but Steve could feel his eyes on him. When he looked over, Shellhead was watching him, though his expression had gone soft and he was holding Steve’s coin wrapped in his hand. Steve wasn’t sure why he thought it, but his first thought was, _ something’s changed _, though he had no idea what. He shivered a bit, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and tried to remember the words to the song he’d promised. 

He wasn’t a great singer by any means, but he had a nice enough voice, or so he had been told. Deep and clear, and the Irish tended to come out more in song, like it had been laying in wait all the years when his Ma said he had to speak right or lose any shot at bettering himself and saw its chance whenever there was a song. Steve cleared his throat, glanced over at Shellhead, who smiled at him, warm and encouraging, except--except it wasn’t, not exactly, not the way it usually was, like it, too, had something behind it always waiting for a chance to get out. Then, the feeling was gone, and it was just Shellhead, smiling at him, the way he always did. Steve sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, and started to sing. 

_ 'Tis many days since I left home _   
_ To join our glorious army, _   
_ I thought but of my country's call, _ _   
And not of what might harm me_

_ I vowed to join both heart and hand, _   
_ Where duty calls you'll find me, _   
_ I left my home, and shed a tear _ _   
For the one I left behind me._

_ To meet the foe was my desire _   
_ Upon the field of battle, _   
_ "The Keystone State," my battle cry. _ _   
While cannon's thunders rattle_

_ But while I'm fighting for my flag, _   
_ And dust and smoke do blind me, _   
_I'll not forget to give one thought _  
_ To the one I left behind me._

_ Oh, when rebellion is crushed out, _   
_ And traitors slain or taken. _   
_ The Stars and Stripes will shine more bright, _ _   
And joy each heart awaken_

_ The horrors of grim war will flee— _   
_ Like troubled dreams remind me, _   
_ How sweet to know I'll meet once more _ _   
The one I left behind me._

_ Surrounded now by friends and kin, _   
_ Who smile, weep and caress me, _   
_ I watch the tears of joy that flow, _ _   
As each dear one doth bless me._

_ But there is one who moves my soul, _   
_ My tears now almost blind me, _   
_ God grant I'll be obliged no more _ _   
To leave my love behind me._

He let the last note fall, then opened his eyes. Shellhead was watching him, though Steve couldn’t make out his expression very well. He hummed, a throaty, clicking sound that Steve had come to understand meant something akin to contentment. 

“Glad you approve,” Steve said, then yawned. He stretched, then curled up as best he could, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill from the wind. “Good night, Shellhead,” Steve said. 

He twisted and repositioned himself a few more times, finally settling. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear the thoughts from his mind, but he could feel them pulling at him. He sighed, brow furrowing. A moment later, he felt a light stroke of fingers over his forehead and through his hair. He huffed a low, pleased sound, and sighed again. God, that felt good. Shellhead hummed, a low, trilling sound that Steve could barely hear over the waves, but it never failed to soothe him. He opened his eyes long enough to see Shellhead hovering above him, looking out at the sea while he threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair, an unreadable expression on his face. Sleep snuck up on Steve before he meant it to, but he dreamed again, this time that he was marching, marching in rows of soldiers, marching and singing, but it was all wrong. It wasn’t, but it was, and he knew it, and only at the end of the dream did he realize the soldier next to him had a hole where his eye should be, and he was marching, marching forward, in rows of the dead, and someone was crying, and he needed to find them, but he couldn’t, because they were all dead, everyone was dead, _ he _ was dead, and they were all marching, marching--

Steve woke with a start, clutching at his chest, a scream halfway up his throat. He gasped for air, panting hard, his vision swimming and his ears ringing. He swiveled his head, looking for Shellhead, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

“Shellhead?” Steve called out, shading his eyes with one hand as he glanced around. He stopped, breath catching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs. 

_ Sails _. 


	7. Chapter 7

The bells of the cathedral seemed to hang from the top of the open window just on the other side of the long bar like Christmas ornaments someone had forgotten to take down once the new year rolled around. They were silent now, late in the afternoon on a Thursday as it was. Outside, the sky was a clear, perfect blue, and circling gulls cried out in hopes that the flow of ships would dredge up their dinner and the constant barrage of bangs and shouts from the wharf faded into the background. 

The tavern was mostly empty, which was the way Steve liked it these days. Tucked into one corner, a colored man with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face appeared to be asleep in a chair, and another man, dressed too finely for this place, was hunched over his drink at the bar, seemingly far more interested in the weeks’ old copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer in front of him than his drink. Behind the bar, Luke cleaned one of the mugs with a rag that didn’t really look like it was up to the task.

Steve liked Luke. Luke Cage, or so he called himself. Steve didn’t think it was the name he was born with, but that was true enough for many people down here. Sam’s real name had been something else, too, Steve remembered. Something to do with a bird, though Steve couldn’t recall how Sam had pronounced it now, just that Steve had liked the sound of it and told Sam it suited him, which had made him smile. Luke Cage was easy enough to remember, though, and not just because of his name. He was a big, towering man, with a bald head and deep voice, who liked to say that he chose Luke, because Luke was the easiest of the Apostle’s name to write, and Cage, because he had been in a cage most of his life, left it behind when he escaped on the Underground Railroad, and then realized, he couldn’t ever leave it behind, and so it was his now. Something he would always carry, so he might as well own it.

Luke and his wife ran The Jewel, which did not do much to live up to its name, not that Steve would ever say as much to Luke. Luke loved the place, after all. Its weather-beaten exterior hid a ramshackle collection of mismatched tables and chairs, leaflets tacked to the wall from ports all over the world, a huge snakeskin spread out on the wall over the bar, and watered-down drinks, unless Luke knew you, in which case, he’d pull one of the bottles from behind the bar and the waft of alcohol would make your eyes water. The Jewel wasn’t much to look at, true enough. It was, however, one of the few taverns in the port that didn’t have a brothel adjacent to it. Not that Steve had any real moral objection to such business, even if he didn’t partake, just that it was quieter down here. Fewer reasons for drunken rows, Steve supposed, and Luke was good company, besides. 

Luke was married, or, well, Steve wasn’t sure if married was the right word. He wasn’t sure of the rules down here on that, but Luke lived with a woman and called her his wife. Certainly, no one was going to tell Jess they had any different ideas about it, Steve thought with a low chuckle. Luke looked like he could break a man in half, but it was Jess who everyone gave a wide berth to. They had a daughter with dark, curly hair and an impish smile that most of the native islanders seemed to dote on. It wasn’t easy for them, though, even here, where people tended to leave others to their business. Not easy, but they loved each other, even as hard as it was. Still, Steve supposed it was easier here than other places, and sometimes, you took happiness where you could find it.

Some people did, anyway, Steve thought, looking down at his empty mug. Some people did that. Some people would just grab on to whatever happiness they could find and damn what anyone else thought of it. 

God, he missed Shellhead. 

It came at him in waves, it seemed, this longing for his friend. Sometimes, he wouldn’t think about Shellhead for hours on end. Sometimes, Shellhead seemed to be all he could think about. 

Sometimes, he thought about Shellhead at night, when Sam and Peter were snoring in the bunks next to him at the boarding house, and Steve’s traitorous mind would remind him what it had felt like. Not just the act itself, but the way it made him feel, cherished and adored, like Shellhead couldn’t understand why Steve would ever want him like that. 

I should have spent more time telling him why, Steve thought. I should have made him understand. Understand what, though? He wasn’t sure himself. Sometimes, he thought he was sure, though, and those were the worst times of all. What if he’d made a mistake? What if Shellhead was right, and it wasn’t like that all the time, and he never got to feel that way again?

Steve knew, rationally, that his memories were a bit gilded. The island had been harsh living, even with Shellhead’s help, and staying there…well, staying there just couldn’t have worked, could it? Of course not. It was a crazy thought to even think. He wondered, though, sometimes, mostly at night when he was trying not to think about other things, if he had told Shellhead he wanted to stay, if Shellhead could’ve figured something out. Shellhead was damned clever, after all. Probably more clever than Steve even realized at the time. What if there had been some other possibility that Steve hadn’t even considered, all because it had sounded impossible and—and  _ wrong _ in his head?

No. No, he couldn’t have stayed. He had been over and over this in his head, and he knew that was true. He missed New York, he missed Bucky and Nat and the rest of them, and he wanted to see that Sam and Peter were alive and well. He owed it to himself to build a life instead of running away from it. 

So, what are you still doing here, then, Rogers, he snorted to himself and sipped his drink. It wasn’t as if things were a whole lot easier back here than they had been on the island, just a different kind of difficult. For a brief moment there on the  _ Marvel _ , he’d been richer than he had ever been in his life, but that hadn’t lasted nearly as long as Steve would have liked. He’d used the Spanish gold to get the Captain of the ship that rescued him to turn back to port. That had been akin to highway robbery in Steve’s opinion, but it wasn’t as if he really had much choice at the time. The pearls proved more difficult to sell than he would have liked, and he had to break the necklace apart and trade them piece by piece. The cup, he was keeping, at least for now. Maybe he would try to sell it once he was back in New York, where he could get a price close to its worth. Klaue, the thief who called himself a procurer of wares or some such nonsense and general bane of island existence, offered Steve an insultingly paltry sum for it one night when Steve had stupidly brought it with him to The Jewel, just because he had been maudlin and missing Shellhead. Steve turned him down, of course, though Klaue persisted until Luke ordered him to get out before Klaue ended up losing his second hand for thievery. 

Thanks to the pearls, though, Steve did have enough saved for passage home for him, Peter and Sam. He had thought they wouldn’t want to follow him, but to his surprise, Sam’s acceptance came almost immediately. He was tired of the Caribbean, he said, and while he didn’t think he could go back to Louisiana just yet, he was eager to return to the States. Peter, too, seemed ready to go home. He’d even written his aunt to see if she had a place for him, now that he could earn his keep. 

If he went back out there, he wondered if Shellhead would find him.

It was a stupid thought. The sea was nearly boundless. There was no way Shellhead would even know. But, it kept gnawing at him, this idea. One last trip before he left. It was little more than a fantasy, Steve knew, but it nagged at him like something dangling just out of reach. If he could just  _ see _ Shellhead again…just to know he was alright. Just to know that he knew how much Steve missed him, how much he meant to Steve, how much Steve wished…wished things were different.

Steve sighed heavily, then looked up and signaled to Luke, who nodded, and pulled a bottle off the back of the bar. He walked over and poured some into Steve’s mug, giving him a long look. 

“Haven’t seen you around for a while, Redlegs,” Luke said with a smile. 

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” Steve grunted into his cup at the nickname.

“You should hear what Jess calls you,” Luke shrugged. “My nickname for you is a lot nicer.”

“I’ll bet,” Steve huffed. There were a good number of Irish and Scots here, thanks to some of the many rebellions against the English that consigned several of Steve’s ancestors to indentured servitude on the island. The name the islanders gave the group of them was Redlegs, on account of how their pale Irish skin faired in the brutal tropical sun, but Luke only used the moniker for Steve as far as he could tell. 

“Haven’t seen Jess around for a while. How is she?” Steve asked.

“Foul-mouthed, bad-tempered and pissed about something,” Luke answered, then grinned widely. “Same as always.” 

That was true. The first time Steve met Jess she was cursing worse than any sailor Steve had ever heard and clotting a man upside the head with a bottle of rum. Steve liked her instantly, and he thought the feeling was about as mutual as it could be. She tolerated him, anyway, which was more than most people got from her. 

“Give her my best, would you?” Steve replied with a slight smile. 

“She’ll be touched,” Luke said, crossing his arms and turning a narrow-eyed gaze on Steve. “Come over for dinner this Sunday and tell her yourself.”

“Can’t. But, thanks. I’m headed back to New York. On the  _ Scarborough _ ,” Steve said, struggling for the right tone that mimicked an anticipation he didn’t quite feel. He tapped his finger on the edge of the table, a raw, nervous energy threading through him, then made himself stop. There were three berths reserved on the  _ Scarborough _ , one for him, Peter and Sam, if they would join him. This time...this time, I’ll go, Steve told himself, looking down at his mug as he swirled the contents around. 

This time, I’ll go. 

Luke whistled and shook his head. “New York, huh? Long way from here, that’s for sure, but I reckon you have your people back there, don’t you? Guess it’s about time for you to get back. After everything.”

Everything. Everything being the sinking of the  _ Valkyrie _ , the months Steve spent stranded on the island, the seemingly longer months back here after his rescue trying to figure out what to do with himself. After everything. 

After Shellhead.

His face scrunched up into a tight grimace, and he let out a long breath, taking a long swallow of his drink. 

“You okay there, Redlegs?” Luke asked, his eyes cresting into a look of concern.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Luke. Here,” Steve added after a beat of silence, rolling a large pearl out of his pocket and onto the table, “For my tab.”

“You don’t have a tab,” Luke reminded him, but he picked up the pearl and held it to the light, eyeing it for a moment before looking back down at Steve. 

“Save it for Dani, then,” Steve suggested.

“Well, now you’re just not playing fair, Redlegs. Don’t suppose you want to tell me any more about where this came from?” Luke asked, eyes narrowing as he studied the pearl.

“Not really,” Steve said, mouth flattening as he took another drink.

“You should hear the stories I get told about your little adventure out there,” Luke said with a light laugh. “You’re practically a legend, now, you know. Everyone has some version of what happened they heard directly from someone who knows someone who knows you, of course. Even if half of it’s just them talking in their cups, the truth is plenty good enough to keep people talking, that’s for sure. Three months stranded on an island in the middle of waters claimed by the Ten Rings, and you show up all fine and dandy in a patched-up dinghy with a bag of Spanish gold. Sweet Christmas, Redlegs,” Luke whistled lowly, “That’s a hell of a tale, isn’t it? Come on, us barkeeps trade on stories as much as rum. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what really happened out there?”

Steve shook his head. “Nothing to tell,” he insisted, glancing through the open space in the wall that passed for a window without really seeing. 

“Not the way I hear it,” Luke countered. “Bosun on the  _ Quinjette  _ said when they found you, you were shouting some kind of nonsense at the sea like you expected to get an answer,” Luke said, seemingly nonchalantly, but the implied question in the statement lingered. “ _ He _ said he thought you weren’t going to get on the ship when they first pulled up next to you in that little dinghy of yours. Not that heat and thirst won’t do that to a man. I’ve heard of plenty of men found at sea who tried to swim away from rescue, trapped in their minds after too long at sea.”

“Then that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” Steve snapped before he could stop himself, then scrubbed his hand over his mouth. 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Luke prevaricated, nodding his head back and forth, then added in a far quieter tone, “He said you spent the whole way back into port just staring out at the sea. Unnerved him, a bit, I think.”

Steve looked down, picking at a groove in the tabletop with his fingernail. “You ask all your patrons about me?” Steve huffed, trying for a smile, but not quite managing it.

It still stung. He’d thought…well, he’d thought Shellhead would at least make some kind of appearance. Even when it became clear the  _ Quinjette  _ was too close to port for that to happen, Steve hadn’t been able to walk away from the railing. He stood there longer than the few hours he was able to find sleep. He just… he couldn’t believe Shellhead was just  _ gone _ like that. Gone, maybe forever. It still didn’t seem real. Sometimes, none of it did, and then some memory would hit him—the way Shellhead’s eyes lit up when he smiled, how he listened with such focus to whatever Steve wanted to talk about, as if he was genuinely interested, his cleverness, his kindness, how his hands and, well, how other parts felt—and it would seem like the most real thing Steve had ever experienced. Sometimes like just about the only real thing.

For it to just be gone like that, it—it didn’t sit right with Steve. He would have said—he would have said  _ something _ . Something more. Not just sang some stupid marching song, he would have told Shellhead how much their time together had meant, how much he meant to Steve, how he wished things could be different. There was so much Steve wished he had said, but—well, it wasn’t like it mattered now. Shellhead was gone, and Steve was going back to New York. He would have his memories, and the shell that Shellhead gifted him with after…well, after. 

“Couldn’t get them to shut up about finding you, at least for a while there,” Luke replied with a slight tip of his head, drawing Steve’s attention back to him. Luke raised his eyebrows in question and regarded Steve with a strange look. Almost concern, but…but not quite. Curiosity, sure, but there was something underneath it, the way there always was with men of the sea who heard Steve’s story. Some kind of shared inkling that the sea kept her secrets and rarely granted second chances. 

“Wilson and the rest swore you’d gone down with the Valkyrie,” Luke was saying. “When he and the others made it back after the  _ Statesman _ picked them up. Claimed there was no way you could have survived. No way. Yet, here you sit, months later, drinking my cheapest ale. It’s the kind of story that makes a man wonder, is all I’m saying. The chances of that….” Luke trailed off, giving Steve an expectant look. Steve held his tongue and took a drink. He was a terrible liar, he knew, and Luke had heard too many tall tales not to recognize an attempt at guile when he saw it, especially a poor one. Luke’s face softened at Steve’s silence, and he spread his hands wide, as if in surrender. “Well, it’s your story to keep or tell, I suppose, though, between you and me, Danielle’s going to be mighty disappointed if it wasn’t a mermaid what saved you,” he chuckled, flashing an easy grin at Steve. 

Steve stared at the bells in the window for a long moment, then looked down at the tabletop in front of him where his nearly empty tankard sat. “You can tell her it was,” he said finally, looking up at Luke with a slight smile. “Tell her that’s exactly what it was.”

“She’d like that, no doubt. She’d like it better coming from you. It’s going to break her heart when you leave, but I understand wanting a fresh start,” Luke replied. “I know it’s been tough for you here, all the rumors going ‘round with what Zemo said, it can’t have been easy to pick up work—”

“He’s lying,” Steve interjected in a dull, flat voice. Zemo _ was _ lying, of course he was, but Zemo’s accusations, along with the underlying sense that Steve was bad luck in some unnamable way that sailors understood, had cost Steve any chance he had at staying in port and finding another job with even one of the lesser known shipping companies. A black spot against his name courtesy of Stark Trading Company certainly made sure of that. 

“I mean, I did hit him, but there was no way to save the damn ship, Luke, except not sail into the storm in the first place, like I  _ told _ —" Steve pounded the table for emphasis, making the tankard bounce, “I told him to turn back. We all did, but he wouldn’t  _ listen _ .”

“Oh, I have no doubt Zemo’s just trying to save his own ass, Redlegs, and you’ve got enough witnesses swearing it was Zemo’s decisions that cost the ship, and you the hero. Not that Stane or anyone at one of the trading companies is going to put much stock into what Wilson or any of the swabbies say. You know how that is. Others will believe the truth, though. Still, you know how sailors and their kin are about things like this,” Luke said, his voice grave. “The problem is, everyone knows Zemo’s full of shit, but they don’t know what to make of your story, either.”

“Yeah,” Steve acknowledged bleakly after a long moment. “I know.”

“Bunch of superstitious bastards, is what they are,” Luke shrugged. “Can’t blame them too much, I suppose. They get…well, they get scared when something happens that they don’t rightly understand, you know? All of us depend on the sea in one way or the other. We don’t much care for it when she doesn’t behave like she ought to. And nothing about what happened to you went like it ought to. They call you a Jonah, you know that, right?” Luke asked. Steve nodded. Bad luck, that’s what that meant, and no one wanted someone like that onboard.

“No one would be able to say exactly why, if you asked them,” Luke continued. “It’s the feeling on the back of their necks saying, something’s not right about this. That energy across your skin before a storm rolls in where you just  _ know _ . They’ve learned to trust their instincts, Redlegs, and I can’t say I blame them. It isn’t fair, I know, but lots of life isn’t fair, and we’re all just trying to get by down here.”

“I know, Luke. I’m not…I’m not blaming anyone, it’s just,” Steve broke off, leaning back in his chair with a sigh that got lost in the creaking of the chair’s legs. “I thought I’d get to go back out again, at least once more, before heading home.”

“Huh,” Luke huffed. “Never took you for someone with the sea in his blood, Redlegs.” He clapped Steve on the shoulder, giving him a little shake. “But, the sea calls louder to some than others, doesn’t she? It’s hard to let go of that, once you have a taste, I suppose. Me? I’ll take solid land beneath my feet. Jess is the only uncontrollable force of nature I need in my life,” he smiled, wide and bright. 

Steve breathed out a small laugh, and nodded at Luke. “You’re a lucky man, Luke.”

“Indeed I am, indeed I am. And lucky for you, I guess,” Luke began, drawing out the words. He shrugged and tossed the rag over his shoulder as he walked back around the bar and nodded at the other patron. “Davy Jones saw fit to bring the  _ Gulmira _ down to him, and now, that’s all you hear about. You’ve been replaced with an even better tale, Redlegs! Lucky for all of us, when you get right down to it. One less Ten Rings’ ship to worry about, and Raza himself feeding the fish. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving lot,” Luke said, raising a bottle in toast before refilling the glass of the man at the bar.

“Way I heard it,” the man at the bar began as he set his paper down and glanced over his shoulder, “some kind of creature brought her down.” 

Steve started, bumping the table and nearly knocking his drink over.

“What—what kind of creature?” Steve managed to choke out, panic, relief, wonder and something a lot like the sense of learning something you already knew warring in his mind. It couldn’t be—could it? And yet, he was certain it was before the question even finished being asked.

Shellhead. 

His Shellhead had brought down the  _ Gulmira _ . The Ten Rings’ flagship with Raza himself aboard, one of the Caribbean’s most feared and loathsome pirates. Of  _ course _ , Shellhead sunk her. Of course. A bubble of joy filled Steve’s chest. It was Shellhead. He knew it was. He  _ knew  _ it. Who else would set out to do what the combined navies of the United States, Britain, Spain and France and the merchant fleets themselves hadn’t managed? No one else would be that clever or that bold, but somehow, this missing piece of the puzzle fit right in, even if Steve couldn’t see the whole of it yet. Why would Shellhead be targeting the Rings? He must understand what the Rings were, what they did, the way he had understood about slavery and other things that a creature like him seemingly had no right to comprehend.

“Don’t know what kind. Nothing in these waters big enough to bring down a ship that size,” the man at the bar said. “But something brought her down, and it wasn’t an unmarked shoal or whatever story Stane is spreading to his friends in Washington.”

“Yeah, I heard that one, too. A kraken, if you believe the cabin boy on the  _ Erie _ . A whale, if the quartermaster on the  _ Jupiter _ is to be believed,” Luke replied. 

“But— _ some _ kind of creature,” Steve repeated. “You’re sure?”

“Ah, hell, Redlegs, I’ve heard fifty different versions of the story in one night,” Luke huffed, pouring another round for the man at the bar. “It’s all anyone can talk about, and everyone seems to want to out-do each other for the most farfetched. A storm that came out of nowhere, just hovering over just the  _ Gulmira _ . A rogue wave, taller than her mast took her down. Even that Raza went mad, chasing after some….some  _ phantom _ only he could see and ended up scuttling her on some unmarked reef, like Stane wants to say happened. And yeah, that some beast dragged her down. You know how sailors like their stories. It’s a bunch of nonsense, most of it is,” Luke shrugged. “But, still,” he stopped and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “something is going on with the Rings, that much is certain. Has been for years.”

“Years?” the man at the bar asked. “Before the incident with the  _ Gulmira _ , you mean.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Luke asked, then turned to Steve. “Coulson here is some kind of government inspector for the—what did you call that agency again?”

“The Strategic Homeland—” the man, Coulson, Steve’s mind supplied, started to answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, that one. You ever think about shortening that name?” Luke asked, shaking his head and raising his brows. 

“We’re working on it,” Coulson replied. 

“Point is,” Luke continued as if the man hadn’t spoke, “the Ten Rings have been a scourge on these waters since before I was born, and whatever force it is taking them out? Well, I’m not saying anything against it.” He made the sign of the cross over himself, though to Steve’s knowledge, Luke wasn’t Catholic. Maybe it just seemed prudent when you talked about supernatural creatures and forces of nature with vendettas against pirates.

“Force?” Coulson repeated, making the word a question. 

“Well, something blew their hideout near to bits all those years ago, didn’t it? Makluan, that’s what they called it. The Dragon’s Lair,” Luke translated for them. “Big hunk of rock around a cove where they offloaded their hauls,” Luke explained at Steve’s questioning look. “No one dared approach it. Not only was it more heavily fortified than just about any of the forts down in these parts, even if you’d wanted to try the guns--and you didn’t--the shoals were impossible to navigate if you didn’t know the way in, and only the ships’ pilots knew the route. Supposedly, they lost their tongues for that honor.”

“What happened to it?” Coulson asked. “The impenetrable island fortress of the…most feared pirates in the south seas.” His mouth twitched a bit, Steve noticed. Not quite a smile, but not quite not a smile. 

“No one knows. Half the rock cleaved off into the sea, if you can believe the reports of those who have passed within sight of it since,” Luke replied. “Sunk the ships they had anchored there, too. I’d have thought maybe an earthquake. We get those sometimes, usually just make things rattle for a bit, but four ships on the trading route reported seeing the smoke from whatever it was, and that warship that was down here hunting for signs of the ship that sank with Stark on it, they saw the smoke, too, or so Jess said she heard they did, and she’d know, I reckon. She’s good at finding stuff out when she wants to, and the reward for information about Stark was more than we’ll see in a lifetime.”

“Wait, Stark’s ship went down near here? I thought that happened on the crossing,” Steve said.

“Well, not near _ here _ , exactly, but rumor has it, he was headed down here to talk to Stane before going back to New York or Washington or wherever they wanted him,” Luke told him. 

“Why, though? With the War on, what would be so important he’d need to come talk to Stane in person?” Steve wondered aloud.

“No idea, Redlegs,” Luke replied. “Must’ve been important to come all the way down here to see Stane, but it isn’t like Stane exactly wants word to be getting out the boss man was going to pay him a visit, now is it?”

Steve chewed on his lip, frowning. Why would Stark come all the way down here to see Stane personally? What could have been so important, with the War brewing back home, that Stark needed to see him in person? Not that it really mattered, Steve supposed, but it niggled at the edges of his mind, like something stuck in his tooth that he couldn’t dislodge. Shellhead always got strangely agitated when Steve brought up Stark, hadn’t he? What if…what if somehow, it was all connected? Stark, the Rings, Shellhead, the  _ Gulmira _ …At the bar, Steve heard Coulson clear his throat, and he looked up, regarding the other man with brewing concern. 

“So, what else have they told you that makes you think something has it out for the Ten Rings?” Coulson asked.

“You hear things, don’t you? Sailors like to talk. Hell, when they’re not whoring or sleeping, all they want to do is talk your ear off. Put a little rum in them and they like to talk a lot. A lot of it’s just that. Talk. Doesn’t mean anything. But, sometimes, if you put a bit here together with a bit there…” Luke trailed off, glancing between Coulson and Steve. “Look, all I’m saying is, one thing happening—the  _ Gulmira _ , let’s say--okay, that’s the way it goes sometimes, but if you listen and kind of put things together, well. There’s been other goings on with the Rings these past few years. Things that don’t sit right with just about anyone who's heard about them.”

“What things?” Coulson asked, sounding mildly curious, but there was a sharpness to the question that Steve thought Luke could hear, too. 

“Well,” Luke began, his voice a bit more careful than it had been, like he was choosing his words, “ever since the Dragon’s Lair blew, something’s been taking the Rings’ ships out one by one,” Luke told them. “Sure, the Rings have their fair share of enemies, all the pirate leagues do, but no one wants to claim responsibility for all the goings on, and taking out the Rings? That’s something I doubt any of the other crews could shut up about. No one’s exactly mourning the losses, now, you mind, but it’s still a hell of a thing, not going to lie,” Luke said, mouth ticking down. “Reports of Rings ships lost at sea on days as clear as this one. That French ship, the  _ Galathee _ , they were on the run from the  _ Fang  _ when something blew a hole in the  _ Fang’ _ s hull. Waterlogged her until all that was left was scrap.”

“A torpedo?” Steve guessed. “I heard the Navy made some use of them during the War. Battle of Mobile Bay, wasn’t it, where Farragut ran the Rebel minefield?”

“’Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,’” Coulson quoted, eyebrows raised, while Steve nodded at the familiar refrain. “You’re a soldier.”

“Not anymore,” Steve replied. He dropped his gaze to his tankard, jaw working so hard he could feel his teeth grinding together. He didn’t want to talk about the War with this stranger who didn’t look like he had ever gotten his hands bloody.

“But you were,” Coulson observed. 

“That a problem?” Steve asked. It was, for some, regardless of which side you fought on. 

“No. Just surprised to find a soldier all the way down here,” Coulson replied in a mild tone that still managed to set Steve’s teeth on edge.

“Not just a soldier. Redlegs here was a Yankee Captain. One of the best, the way I hear it,” Luke said, nodding pointedly at Steve as he polished another tankard. 

“That’s…not—I wasn’t---I don’t even know where you heard that,” Steve protested.

“Wilson can’t shut up, drunk or sober, you know that,” Luke said, shaking his head again, this time with a fond smile, though. 

“Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Steve said, too harshly, but he couldn’t help it. Luke glanced at him, frowned.

“You saved his life, Redlegs. He’s gonna talk,” Luke shot back, but his tone was almost gentle, like he understood. Maybe he did, Steve didn’t know. For all Luke talked, he didn’t talk about himself much. 

“You were in the Irish Brigade,” Coulson said quietly. Steve looked over at him, then nodded, once. Coulson turned back to Luke and took a long drink, setting the tankard down with a clank. “They usually went in first. The Irish Brigade. Five regiments of them, just about the toughest and bravest men you’ve ever seen. Antietam. Fredericksburg. Then Gettysburg. That was you all, leading the charge, wasn’t it?” he asked, turning back to Steve. Steve didn’t respond, just took another drink and looked out the glassless window, seeing nothing. “Most of them weren’t even citizens, did you know that? Just volunteered,” Coulson asked, looking back at Luke. 

“Hell of a thing,” Luke agreed, then more softly, “Redlegs here is one of the good ones, Coulson. Don’t let him tell you any different.”

“Just a soldier, like anyone else. They broke us up after the conscription riots,” Steve said, looking down at the bottom of his tankard. “What was left of us, anyway.” 

“I heard about that,” Coulson said quietly. He was looking at Steve with a steady gaze that was hard to meet, but it wasn’t unkind. “The Brigade wasn’t too popular with the West Pointers to begin with, I’ll give you that, they just couldn’t argue with results. But, there were a few people back in Washington paying attention. One unit, in particular, distinguished itself rather spectacularly, if I recall correctly.”

“It was war. You distinguished yourself by not dying,” Steve pointed out dryly. Coulson glanced over his shoulder at Steve again with a long, considering look that was somewhat unnerving, Steve had to admit. There was something about the government man, something going on beneath the fancy suit and carefully doled out bits of information, but Steve didn’t have a clue as to what it was. 

“You don’t, ah,” Steve started, trying to get the subject back on track as images came unbidden to his mind until he scraped them away with a hand digging into his forehead. “You don’t think it was a torpedo that sunk the  _ Gulmira _ .”

“Could’ve been one of those, I guess,” Luke acknowledged, “but where would someone get a torpedo all the way down here?” Coulson looked up at that, but said nothing. Steve figured if someone was taking out pirates with stolen mines, someone in the government would want to know about it, which maybe explained Coulson’s presence. “And the  _ Galathee _ ’s pilot swore they had just passed over the same waters only moments before, yet they made it through unscathed. Besides, it isn’t just the destruction of Makluan and the  _ Fang _ , it’s been something every few months for years, if you listen carefully to the stories that are carried back from Port Royal or Tortola. Takes a while for word to get out, but it does. Ships vandalized in the middle of the sea. Secret caches emptied. Hideouts destroyed. Now, the  _ Gulmira _ , too. Either that’s the worst run of bad luck in the history of pirating, or someone—or some _ thing _ \--has it out for the Rings.”

“A creature, though, you’re sure that’s what he said?” Steve asked. Luke shrugged. 

“I don’t care what it is, if it’s after the Rings, I’d serve it right here at the bar,” Luke bit out in a harsher tone than Steve knew him to use. 

“The Ten Rings have been a problem for decades. The government was working with the British and Spanish navies to curtail their activities before the War, but…” Coulson trailed off with a slight grimace. 

“If someone is after the Rings in particular, it isn’t the Navy’s doing, you’re saying,” Steve finished for him. “Or anyone else that you know of. But, you think it could be some of our ordinance?”

“Something’s sinking ships down here, Captain Rogers,” Coulson replied. “I don’t know how it’s happening, but it is. Commerce relies on these trade routes, and right now, the United States can’t afford to have that disrupted. Even if whatever this is restricts itself to the Rings for now, who’s to say that will last?”

“So, you’re here to go after…whatever it is,” Steve pressed. Coulson gave him a circumspect look, then went back to his tankard of ale. “What if you find it, what will you do? You wouldn’t hurt hi—it, would you?”

“Depends on what we’re dealing with, Captain,” Coulson replied in a clipped tone. “We can’t just ignore what’s happening just because it’s happening to the bad guys. For now.”

“You’re not going to find much help going after whatever is taking on the Rings,” Luke added after a moment’s silence.

“I wouldn’t think so, no,” Coulson agreed. “But if someone is out there, taking matters into their own hands, you can see how that would be a concern, surely—"

“We’ve dealt with pirates for centuries here, Coulson,” Luke cut in, “and mostly, they keep to themselves. Maybe they do a bit of pillaging, take a ship’s chandlery and cargo every now and then, that kind of thing. Cost of doing business down here. The companies have their insurance, and the crews, if they keep their wits, they end up ransomed back just fine,” Luke began, a frown furrowing his brow. “Not that I approve, mind you, but that’s the way of it, and it’s been the way of it since just about the time the first trade routes opened. They keep to their rules, and the navies step in when they get out of line, and everyone goes about their business,” Luke said, his voice going low and hard. “But the Rings? They are by far the worst of the lot. The stories you hear about them….” he broke off, shaking his head and sucking in a bracing breath. “The  _ Gulmira _ , she was a passenger ship, you know? Back before the War got started, she was headed for Tampa Bay. Got blown off course in a storm and ended up limping towards land down here, looking for help, except the Rings found her first.”

“What happened?” Steve asked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer. 

“The lucky ones were tossed overboard,” Luke replied, his voice low and tight. “So, let’s just say that if Davy Jones or God or whatever it is you want to call it decided it was time to take them out, one by one, then you won’t hear a peep out of anyone around these parts bemoaning the loss, you get me?”

“Some sea creature isn’t going to target the Rings the way you’re describing, Luke, that makes no sense,” Steve argued. God, it was Shellhead, he knew it, and that meant Shellhead was in danger. If the government found him…even if he was doing something that needed doing like taking out the Rings…Steve shuddered to think of what they might do to someone like Shellhead. 

“Like I said, Redlegs, sailors like their stories,” Luke shrugged again and picked up one of the tankards to polish. “Who knows what the truth really is? I know something happened to the  _ Gulmira _ , and good riddance, I say. A creature? Mayhap it was. Who am I to say? God knows, there are more things out there in the seas than we mere men can ever truly know, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard tell of such things. Whales’ll do it. Look what happened to the  _ Essex _ ,” Luke reminded them. “The sea is not always a forgiving mistress, and the Ten Rings have long used her for their own gain. If she is fighting back now, well, you’ll not hear any woe for it around these parts.”

“Well, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out and put a stop to it,” Coulson said. He plunked a few coins down on the table, stood up and nodded at Luke.

“Wait,” Steve said, his mind swirling. “You said Stark’s ship sank not too far from here.” Luke nodded. “He was coming back to help with the War effort, though,” Steve said, struggling to remember the few newspaper articles he had managed to get his hands on back in the day. “Supposedly, he had been working on something that would have been a huge boon to the Union cause—That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to Coulson. “That’s what you’re really here looking for. Stark had munitions on the ship that went down, didn’t he? Not just underwater mines, but you think maybe he had something else. Something big. Something that could blow half an island to pieces. That’s what you’re here for. You think the Rings found it or—or took it, and someone’s eliminating everyone who knew about it. That’s why the government’s so interested in trade routes down here all of a sudden, isn’t it?”

Coulson gave him a long, considering look, then smiled, ever so slightly. “No idea what you’re talking about,” Coulson said smoothly, turning back to Luke. “Sailors do love a good story, don’t they?” He looked at Steve again, eyes narrowing slightly. “If you do make it back to New York, Captain, you might look us up. We could use men like you.”

“In the Strategic Homeland—” Steve started.

“Just call us SHIELD,” Coulson cut him off. 

Steve watched Coulson leave The Jewel, the door that didn’t quite close right knocking shut behind him on a strong gust of wind. He looked up at Luke, who cleaned the bar and raised his eyebrows in silent question, but said nothing. 

“Tell Jess and Danielle goodbye for me, would you,” Steve said as he stood to leave. 

“Don’t go doin’ something stupid, now, Redlegs,” Luke shot back, ignoring Steve’s request. 

“It’s like you don’t know me at all, Luke,” Steve replied, his mouth set into a grim line. He nodded once at Luke, who returned the gesture with a fatalistic sort of huff, then followed in the government man’s footsteps out of the bar. 

The sun was hanging low in the sky as Steve made his way back to the boarding house. He walked along the wharf, as was his wont, even if it meant a longer route back. The briny smell, the coarse shouts of the dock workers and sailors, the customs house with it is fine, stately curves and lines of people come to declare their wares, the bangs of barrels and crates being off-loaded, there was something alive about the docks in a way the rest of the city never quite managed.

More times than Steve could count these past couple of months back in port, he found himself drawn back down here, to the sea, like some invisible tether would tug at him, and he would just have to go. At night especially, when he couldn’t sleep, he would wander down to the docks and find himself staring out at the dark slate of water beyond where the ships were moored for loading and unloading, longing for something that could never be. Something more, Steve thought, then shook his head as he twisted out of the way of two men swinging a pallet of bagged dry goods between them.

_ You’re a dreamer, Stevie, _ that was what his Ma used to say to him, ruffling his hair as she did.  _ I hope you find someone you’ll fight for, Steve, I really do _ , Steve’s mind rang in Peggy’s voice from that last conversation with her before he left. She hadn’t been mad, Steve didn’t think, more resigned than anything. He thought maybe she understood, even better than he had, why he needed to go.

Bucky hadn’t. Bucky, who had followed him into alleys and into battle, had looked at Steve across the table at the walk-up he shared with Nat the same way the other soldiers looked at the Irish Brigade as they marched off. Steve could look back and see that now, clear as day. _ It wasn’t your fault, Stevie. It was a Goddamned war, for fuck’s sake. You gotta stop punishing yourself.  _ He had been scared, Steve thought as he looked past the bustling dock to the water churning beyond in low, white-capped waves. Scared Steve wouldn’t come back from this. But, he was. He was going back. Back home, he thought, a pang sundering his chest. Steve slowed, looking out at the sea again.

Home, he thought. I’m going home. 

Why did the thought feel hollow? He shook his head and picked up his pace again, eyes darting back to the water as he walked. He couldn’t seem to help but scan the water anytime he was close to it, and this time was no different. A habit, like looking up at the night sky because he had once seen a falling star. It wasn’t that he actually thought Shellhead would show up here, in port. Steve knew that wasn’t safe for Shellhead here, but he felt closer to his friend when he could hear the rush of the waves and see their white crests dip and dive with the tide. 

Was Shellhead safe out at the island, though? Clearly, the government wanted to find out what was after the Rings. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and shoved his hands in his pockets, a frown furrowing his brow. If Steve was right about who was behind the Rings’ recent bout of trouble, and he thought he was, then Shellhead was in danger. Not just from whatever might be left of the Rings, but from the United States government, which wasn’t particularly fond of its ordinance being used without permission, even if it was in taking down a pirate cabal. What would the government do with someone like Shellhead? Steve winced, his mind conjuring all kinds of possibilities, each worse than the one before. He’d seen prisoners aplenty during the War, and while he thought the Rebels took the prize for atrocity to their fellow man, it wasn’t as if Elmira or Camp Douglas had exactly been vacation spots. 

Which meant, somehow, Steve had to get back there to the island. Warn Shellhead away. Tell him to hide. Something. He had a general idea of where the island must be located. He’d plotted it on a crudely-drawn map shortly after he got back to port, on a whim, he told himself, but it was rolled up with his other sketches in his bunk at the boarding house. But, how to get there? No ship would have Steve aboard, either because of Zemo’s ramblings or the crew’s own superstitious nonsense, and he didn’t have the money to charter one. Ship crews weren’t exactly kind to stowaways, even if he could manage to sneak onboard a ship that happened to be headed that way. That didn’t leave him many options, but he had to figure  _ something  _ out.

If something happened to Shellhead…

Steve stopped and turned his face up at the waning sun, closing his eyes against the swell of pain that rose with that thought. It was like a physical blow, gut-punching him, pulling something out of him until there was a big well of emptiness inside. He didn’t think he could bear it, truth be told. He just, he  _ couldn’t _ . It hurt too much. Shellhead…he needed Shellhead to be out there, happy and free, and…but was he? Was he happy? Or, did he miss Steve? Did he miss Steve the way Steve longed for him? Was he lonely, stuck by himself, or happy to be rid of a mouth to feed? He’d asked himself the same questions time and time again, but no answers ever came. Shellhead had just…left him. Gone. Like he was never there. Like Steve wasn’t even worth a—no. No, that wasn’t fair. He had no idea what had caused Shellhead to leave like that, without so much as a goodbye, though he couldn’t pretend it didn’t sting. 

If I’d just been able to see him again, just once, Steve thought, for probably the thousandth time. There were so many things Steve wished he had said. He shook his head, hands on his hips, then opened his eyes and sucked in a harsh breath. There wasn’t anything for it. For whatever reason, Shellhead hadn’t resurfaced, not that Steve had seen anyway. That must have been the way Shellhead wanted it, Steve thought with a grim resignation as he started to walk again even a spike of hurt curdled in his chest. He would have liked to say goodbye, at least. A proper goodbye. Whatever that meant. 

Maybe…maybe Shellhead had known how hard that would be. Maybe he wanted to make it easier. A clean break. Shellhead could go back to his life, and Steve could pick up the pieces of his, such as they were. Maybe it was better that way.

It didn’t  _ feel _ better, though.

Not for the first time, Steve imagined seeing Shellhead’s familiar splash of red and gold beyond the bow of the  _ Quinjette  _ and leaping over the side, trusting that Shellhead would be there. The  _ Marvel  _ was long gone, probably swallowed by the waves after Steve was picked up, but Shellhead could get them to safety. Or even here, as he walked along the wharf, he could look over and see Shellhead’s familiar face smiling at him, a finger to his lips, warning Steve to silence. And then…and then. That was the problem. Steve’s fantasy didn’t include much in the way of how he was going to live the rest of his life stranded on an island with just Shellhead for company, as good as that company might be, or how Shellhead could possibly fit into Steve’s life here, even if he stayed. He couldn’t seem to stop entertaining the fantasies, though. How happy Shellhead would be to see him. How he would welcome Steve with his bright, warm smile that he seemed to reserve just for Steve, wrap him in his strong arms and tentacles and chitter softly at Steve, delighted at his return. 

It was, of course, fantasy and nothing more. Shellhead hadn’t appeared on the long trip back to port, and even if he had, Steve had no idea what he would have done. Not jump overboard and swim off with him. Nor had Shellhead appeared here at the port in the months since Steve’s return. It was pure fancy, of course, to even think such things. But, Steve liked to think on it, from time to time. It helped, when he missed his friend, like a balm on a wound that refused to heal. 

He was almost to the boarding house by the time he pulled his thoughts from his reverie. Steve could see the roof and the tops of the shutters that were pushed up to allow the breeze to flow through and push out some of the oppressive heat that often turned the building into something of an oven. He waved to one of the dock workers he thought he recognized from an earlier voyage. The man spat a wad of tobacco to one side and ignored him. Turning the corner, the dirt road that led to the boarding house took Steve past a wagon loaded with barrels pulled by two brown and white steers and a group of men standing around the front of a small mercantile that claimed to sell cure-alls made from secret island recipes. Luke had long ago warned him away. Women carrying goods in baskets on their heads floated by, paying Steve no mind, and pigs roamed in the street, chased by a few boys with long, thin reeds they tapped at the pigs’ haunches. 

There were two men by the door to the boarding house, Steve noticed immediately. They didn’t look familiar, though that wasn’t so unusual. Most sailors used the boarding house only sporadically, when they were in port between sailings, and so new people arrived all the time. Still, Steve took notice of them. They weren’t dressed like sailors for one thing, and they were tall. Big, too. And they noticed him, that was for sure. Steve could feel their eyes on him. 

He remembered being on watch one night, staring at a copse of trees where nothing moved, and thinking to himself that it was too quiet. There was quiet, the good kind, where the wind blew through the trees and the crickets chirped. Small animals scurried to and fro. Birds fluttered and occasionally added their voice. Then there was another quiet. A deeper quiet. The kind of quiet that was made when men were trying to be silent, but the animals knew, they always did, and they’d disappear into their burrows and nests while the men moved, careful and quiet. 

Steve thought about that as his eyes passed over the men. He could feel his skin prickle as a sense of wrongness snaked up his spine. It’s too quiet, Steve thought, as he said hello to Bessie, the house mistress who ran the place with all the kindness, grace and hospitality of Colonel Phillips on a very, very bad day. She said nothing to him, just went about her sweeping with an almost preternatural diligence, and that, too, was wrong, because Bessie always took the opportunity to harangue her boarders about their rent being due, using too many of the linens, owing her for wash money or some other complaint.

Steve took the stairs carefully, alert for trouble, but the only person he passed in the hall was one of the other boarders with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, about to ship out by the looks of him. 

The rest of the hallway was empty, but when Steve opened the door to the small room he shared with Peter and Sam, there were two strangers inside, two men of an ilk with the men outside. Steve came up short, standing in the doorway, eyes glancing around. Two on the door, two in the room. One by the window, blocking that as a possible exit. A team, then, Steve thought to himself, as he surveyed the men, noting the telltale bulge of a sidearm under each of their coats. That begged the question why men like these would be interested in the belongings of a nobody living at the port’s cheapest boarding house. 

Somehow, Steve didn’t think it was a coincidence that these men showed up at the same time as the government man, and, come to think of it, he didn’t think it was exactly happenstance that Coulson found him at The Jewel. God, who  _ wasn’t  _ after Shellhead?

One of the men was sitting on Steve’s bed, an array of Steve’s sketches spread out on the bed that he was rifling through, occasionally licking his finger to make it easier to separate the sketches. A large tattoo of crossed bones in black ink wrapped around his neck like a dark kerchief. He held the silver cup in one hand, idly waving it from side to side between his fingers. The other man, a huge boulder of a man, stood at the window, looking out without seeming to much care about Steve’s entrance, probably keeping an eye out for Sam or anyone else who might cause a problem, Steve figured. 

“Gentlemen, I think you might have the wrong room,” Steve said from his place in the doorway. He didn’t think that at all, but it was as good a starting point as any. From over his shoulder, he caught movement at the top of the stairs. The men from the door, Steve knew, without having to look. Cutting off his escape route and making sure he knew it, too.

“Rogers, isn’t it?” one of the men said. There was a sneer in his voice, not overt, but he wasn’t hiding it, either. He glanced up at Steve and scratched his finger at the side of his mouth, pursing his lips. “The one who was stranded on that island, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Steve replied. “Something I can help you with?”

“Obadiah Stane would like a word,” the man told him. 

It probably should have surprised Steve, Stane’s name suddenly coming in to all of this, and it did, in a way, the suddenness of it, the sense that it was all happening  _ right now _ , whatever it was that had been building without Steve quite realizing it, and this was it,  _ that  _ caught him by surprise. But after his discussion at The Jewel with Luke and Coulson, the idea that Stane was involved in all this somehow wasn’t exactly a shock. It didn’t much sound like a request to Steve’s ears, that was for certain. He felt his back stiffen, his muscles bunching with sudden tension, but forced himself to relax as best he could. 

“What is it Mr. Stane wants with me?” Steve asked, stalling for time. 

“That’s for him to tell you,” the tattooed man said from his place on the bed. He whistled lowly and held up the silver chalice, twisting it in his hand. “Bet he’d be mighty interested in where you got this, though, wouldn’t you say so, Rollins?”

The other man grunted, which apparently passed for assent.

“I’d be happy to meet with Mr. Stane. Maybe tomorrow afternoon?” Steve offered. “In the meantime, I’d thank you to leave my things alone and get out of my room.” 

“ _ Your  _ things? You hear that? His things. Huh. That’s interesting, Rogers, considering this here bears the Stark Trading Company mark. See that right here?” the man asked, pointing a grimey finger at the crest on the cup, “and was one of a set. Specially made, too, like them rich folks like. Its brother sits in Stane’s office, and this one,” the man with the tattoo continued, eyebrows raising in question, “is supposed to be at the bottom of the sea. Isn’t that right, Rollins?”

The man by the window, Rollins, grunted again. 

“See, I think you and Mr. Stane are going to have a lot to talk about,” the man on the bed told Steve, standing up. 

The man plucked one of Steve’s drawings off the bed and held it up to the light, giving it a curious look. It was one of Shellhead’s eyes, just his eyes, warm and soft, crinkling at the corners because in Steve’s mind, he had been smiling at Steve in that way of his. Steve wanted to rip it out of this man’s hand, but forced himself to hold back, seething all the same. Steve’s gaze fell on the shell that Shellhead had gifted him with where it sat on the small table by his bed. Steve thought, if he touches that, I won’t be able to stop myself, but the man paid it no mind. The man dropped the drawing back on the bed, pawing through the rest of Steve’s sketches--hands, eyes, the curve of Shellhead’s jaw, his mouth when he smiled or when he gave Steve one of his annoyed looks, his arm, the line of his ribs, mostly unfinished, and thankfully, none that suggested what Shellhead truly was—Steve had promised, after all—until he came to the one drawing that was different from all the others. 

“Like this, for instance,” the man said, almost brightly, like he was enjoying himself. He picked up the sheaf of paper, flapping it a bit in the space between them, until it stilled. “This one, I think Mr. Stane’s gonna really want to see this one, don’t you, Rollins?”

The map. 

_ Shit _ , Steve thought.

Stane’s chasing the same thing that man Coulson is, Steve realized with a start. The ship that went down with Stark on it, Stark  _ and his weapons _ , that’s what they’re all after. Whatever it was that Stark was bringing with him, they think someone’s using it against the Rings. And these men think I might know where it is. Coulson did, too. Why else would a man on the government dole be hanging out at The Jewel? I’m an idiot, Steve mentally berated himself. I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut when they started talking about a creature, and now—now he had put Shellhead in even more danger.

Shellhead must know where Stark’s ship went down. That was the only thing that made sense. Shellhead must have found the wreckage. He got the cup from there, this fancy cup that the man with the tattoo said was one of a set, and those duplicate manifests and cargo lists, too. Those were all from Stark Trading Company ships, after all. They must have been on the ship with Stark when it sunk. What else had Shellhead uncovered from the bottom of the ocean? Things that could take down the Ten Rings, apparently, Steve thought grimly. Things that would send the U.S. government, the Ten Rings  _ and _ Stark Trading Company chasing after him. God, Shellhead, you brave, insane, sonofabitch, Steve thought, shaking his head with a surge of wonder that kept vacillating between proud and horrified. What have you gotten yourself into, Shellhead?

“So, about that chat with Mr. Stane,” the man with the tattoo said, pulling a pistol out of his coat. “I’m thinking now is going to be a better time for his schedule than tomorrow. What do you think, Rollins?” The man by the window had his gun out, too, leveled at Steve. “He thinks now is a good time, too,” the tattooed man grinned, all teeth and malice, the way a skull smiles at you, terrible and eternal. 

“Fine,” Steve snapped. 

Two hours later, Steve was stewing in the heat on Stane’s private ship, the  _ Iron Monger _ , where she was moored at one of the Stark Trading Company docks. They’d left him in one of the smaller quarters, meant for a deck officer, probably, instead of the brig, so that was something. At least, it gave him time to think, though without more information, he wasn’t sure how much good it had done him. 

He looked up when the key grated in the lock, and stood as the tattooed man Steve had learned was called Rumlow threw the door open. “Stane’s waiting,” he announced, jerking his head to the side. Steve clenched his jaw around a retort, and followed Rumlow and the other men to the back of the ship, where the Captain’s quarters waited. Rumlow rapped his knuckles on the door, then pushed it open after a muffled voice granted them entry. 

Though he had worked for Stark Trading Company, Steve had never actually met its head or even seen him. There weren’t even that many stories, at least not so many that the sailors were willing to trade, not about Stane, which was unusual in and of itself. You didn’t want to cross him. That had been the gist of it, Steve remembered. The reputation Stane almost courted was that of a smart, ruthless businessman, willing to do whatever it took to make the company successful, which no one could argue that he had accomplished quite handily.

Stark Trading Company was, by all accounts, the wealthiest of the trading companies, with operations from one end of the world to the other, and still only one part of the empire Howard Stark and his son built that Stane now ran from the comfort of his massive plantation home. Steel, mining, railroads, and now petroleum, which seemed to be replacing whale oil in the lamps and taking the whaling industry with it. It was all part of Stane’s empire now, Steve supposed, though he had no idea how any of that worked. He’d been too occupied with fighting a war to worry about the intricacies of the corporate world, but he did recall seeing something in an out of date paper they passed around the camp one time about some kind of dispute with the funding for the Children’s Aid Society, where its director insisted the charity had been promised a bequest that never arrived. 

Steve wasn’t sure what he had been expecting of such a magnate, but it wasn’t the almost grandfatherly man smiling broadly from behind a large, oak desk, stubbing out a cigar upon Steve’s arrival. 

“Come in, come in, sorry to make you wait. You know how it is,” Stane said in a booming voice that seemed to fill the cabin, almost jolly in his welcome. 

Steve couldn’t say exactly how he knew it was all a façade, but he knew. Oh, he knew. This man was not his friend, as friendly as he wanted to appear to be. Too quiet, Steve thought, or too loud to hide the real noise, they were the same thing, really, two sides of the same coin, and Stane was too loud. Too loud, trying to hide something behind all the noise, Steve figured. Steve had the brief thought that Natasha would be proud of him for his suspicion, but then Stane was motioning him to sit, and Steve saw why. On the desk in front of Stane, the silver cup Shellhead had gifted Steve with sat next to its match. A set-up then, Steve thought to himself, jaw clenching as he sat. 

“They were custom made to mark the granting of our charter in East India,” Stane said as he caught the direction of Steve’s gaze. “Real silver, not the cheap stuff you can chip off, but you could tell that from the stamp here on the bottom, of course. Howard, he could be a generous bastard when he was in the mood for it. One for me, one for him, not that he did any of the actual work, of course,” Stane laughed, grating and course. Stane didn’t actually think it was funny, Steve could tell, but he knew how to laugh at the right places where it should be funny, even if it was all a game to him. He eyed Steve with a hard look, and Steve steeled his expression, hoping it gave nothing away. Nat could talk a drowning man into having a glass of water, but Steve knew he wasn’t what one would call particularly great at subterfuge or manipulation, but Shellhead was in trouble. He had to keep his wits about him. Focus. 

“Drink?” Stane asked, surprising Steve as he stood and walked over to a small bar where bottles that even Steve could recognize as expensive sat half-filled and glinting in the sunlight that streamed in from the windows. Steve shook his head, and Stane nodded, placatingly, poured himself a drink and walked back to his desk, smacking his thick lips as he took a sip and set the glass down.

“Captain Rogers, isn’t it?” Stane said. “Union soldier. Impressive service record, from what I hear.”

“I suppose,” Steve replied. 

“What brought you down this way, Captain? If you don’t mind my asking,” Stane said, covering the question with false politeness. 

“Just looking for a change, I guess. After the War,” Steve told him with a light shrug. 

“Of course, of course,” Stane said, waving his hand in the air. “Makes sense, doesn’t it, boys?” he asked, gaze sliding over to where Rumlow and Rollins stood behind Steve. 

“Sure does, Boss,” Rumlow agreed. Steve grated his teeth together, but held his tongue. 

“Then you get down here and that terrible business with the  _ Valkyrie _ happens,” Stane tutted, making a sympathetic noise. “Not that I blame you, Captain,” he added, catching Steve’s somewhat surprised look. “Oh, I know what Zemo has been saying, but, well. Captain Zemo is a fine sailor, don’t get me wrong, but he lacks what I like to call command presence, shall we say?” he grimaced. “The  _ Valkyrie _ going down in that storm was a substantial loss for the Company, though, I have to admit.”

“I’m sure it was,” Steve acknowledged. “We did everything we could to keep her from foundering, but the storm just tore her apart.” 

“I have no doubt you did, Captain,” Stane replied. “You strike me as the type who would. Volunteered for the Army, all kinds of commendations in your file,” Stane said. Steve blinked at him, wondering how he had gotten ahold of Steve’s military records. Though, he supposed someone as powerful as Obadiah Stane could get just about anything he wanted, especially given how dependent the government was on Stark Industries. “And, of course, the men attest to your bravery, letting them get to safety and taking on the storm yourself. Hell of a thing to do. Honorable. Heroic, even, some would say.” 

“I’m not a hero. Just someone who tries to do the right thing, I guess,” Steve replied. 

“I can see that about you, yes, yes, I see that,” Stane said, the words muffled a bit as he ran a hand over his mouth, a frown forming. 

Here it comes, Steve thought, jaw tightening. 

“See the thing is,” Stane began, slow and drawling, like he was choosing his words carefully, though Steve suspected they had been chosen a while ago. Stane peered at him from under bushy eyebrows, pursing his lips together in contemplation. “The thing is, we suffered a great loss a few years ago, Captain. Just before the War. You might have heard about it? The sinking of the  _ Avalon _ , and Tony Stark along with her, God rest his soul.”

Steve nodded.

“Well, you may not know this, but this cup, this one right here, it was on the  _ Avalon _ with Tony when she went down,” Stane told him. “When Mr. Klaue told me he had seen one like mine before, I was, naturally, quite curious. Now, don’t worry, Captain, laws of the sea say salvage belongs to the finder, of course. But, I would very much like to know where you found this. If there is other Company property out there, well, I would be very obliged if you would help me locate it. I’m sure you can appreciate how important this is to the Company. To me. Oh, there’s nothing that would be worth much except this, really. Tony liked to travel light, you know?” Stane lied, giving Steve a flat smile. “But, well. I’m a sentimental old fool, I suppose,” he added, “and after such a terrible tragedy—Tony was like a son to me, Captain—after that, anything that I can recover…it would mean a lot. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. I understand,” Steve replied in a steady voice. 

Oh, he understood, alright. Stane wanted Steve’s help to hunt for the wreckage of Stark’s ship and whatever weapons were onboard. Weapons that were now being used against the Ten Rings. By Shellhead. Stane must think there really was some kind of weapon onboard that could have changed the course of the War, and he wanted it. He certainly didn’t want it to end up in the government’s hands without recompense, that was for sure. Salvage belongs to the finder, indeed. 

“This map,” Stane said, picking up the map Steve had sketched after his return. “Is this where you found the, ah, cup?”

“I think so,” Steve replied carefully. 

“It seems to be missing a few key details,” Stane observed, his voice mild. He leaned back in his chair again, holding the map, one finger tapping at the center and making a hollow, crinkling sound. He grimaced, narrowed his eyes and glanced over at Steve. 

“It was the best I could do,” Steve said, which had the benefit of being true. “Most of those islands don’t exactly have names. To be honest, I don’t think I could possibly find it again. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of small islands out there, and I wasn’t really in a position to do much charting. That isn’t even a map, really. Just what I could remember. It’s not like anything on any chart I know of. I’m sorry. I would help you if I could.”

“That’s too bad. Though, I find it interesting you should say that, Captain,” Stane replied.

“How so?” Steve asked.

“For a man who isn’t sure where he’s going, you sure have tried awfully hard to get there,” Stane told him, taking another drink as he did.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve said.

“Since you’ve been back in port, you’ve tried to join the crews of at least a dozen ships going one particular route,” Stane said, tracing a line through the map, “and only the ones going that route. A similar route to the one the Valkyrie was taking until the storm blew her off course. Similar. But, not the same. You didn’t think you just came to my attention now, did you?” Stane asked at Steve’s shocked look. “So, that makes me wonder, Captain, what exactly is out there that you might want to revisit so badly?”

“Just trying to find work, and that’s a good, long route. Profitable, usually,” Steve said, shrugging a bit as he tried for nonchalant. He didn’t think he quite pulled it off by Stane’s expression. “No one was hiring, though. At least, no one was hiring me.”

At least he knew now why Stane put a black mark on him so no one would take him on a crew. Not because of Zemo’s rantings, as Steve had assumed, but because Stane thought Steve wanted to get back to the island and claim more treasure or weapons or whatever it was that Stane wanted from the wreckage of Stark’s ship. 

“Unfortunate, that,” Stane replied, nodding his head in sympathy. “Crews can be so superstitious about those things.” He leaned forward again, crossing his arms over his desk, and downed the rest of his drink, setting the tumblr down with a loud tap. “See, the problem is, Captain, I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t believe you’re being quite honest with me. What do you think, Rumlow?”

“Definitely hiding something, Mr. Stane,” Rumlow agreed. Steve thought he might hate him more than Stane. 

“Want to know what I think, Captain?” Stane asked, his mouth forming a wan smile. “I think you found more than just this cup out there on this mysterious island you managed to somehow survive on for three months,” Stane suggested evenly. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve objected, his throat nearly closing up on the words. Be careful, he told himself. Stane was more dangerous than he looked, of that, Steve was certain. 

“I think you didn’t even want to be found when you were picked up. Not yet, anyway, at least by the reports from the crew of the  _ Quinjette _ . Didn’t seem like you were quite ready to go,” Stane said. “And since you got back to port, all you’ve tried to do is get back out there.”

“I told you. Just trying to find work,” Steve repeated dully. “And I think I can be excused for not acting rationally after months alone on an island.”

“Captain Zemo swears you took over the  _ Valkyrie _ , set her course against his orders, and insisted everyone else get off the ship while you alone stayed behind,” Stane said, making Steve start in surprise. 

“That—well, yes, but—” Steve started, frowning in confusion. “Like you said, Zemo—"

“You came back, months later, with your pockets lined with treasure, from what I hear,” Stane continued, as if Steve hadn’t spoken. “Claiming the  _ Valkryie  _ sank, yet…no one actually saw her go down. No wreckage ever turned up, even though a number of ships went by that very area not long after the storm cleared. Even the ship that picked up the rest of the crew, she didn’t find a single thing. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“That storm tore her to pieces,” Steve ground out. “You can ask any of the crew about how bad it was. Zemo refused to change course, refused to even listen to reason—"

“Such a terrible storm. And yet…here you sit,” Stane observed, leaning back in his chair. “All I’m saying is, there are a lot of unanswered questions about your little adventure, Captain,” Stane said, spreading his hands wide then flattening them on top of the desk. “Questions that need answers, I’m afraid. The marshal would be very interested, I think, to hear about how it is that you came to have a bag of Spanish gold, a pearl necklace worth more than you are, and this cup, all after a storm that, by your own testimony, was so fierce, it destroyed a merchant ship so utterly and completely that no one can find a trace of her.”

Steve swallowed, staring at Stane. It was outlandish, of course, what Stane was suggesting. Though, admittedly, not so outlandish as the truth. Which presented a bit of a problem.

“On the other hand, if you were to, say, assist the Company with the salvage operation, lead us to this unmarked island, well, that would likely put all those questions to rest, I would imagine,” Stane said. “Oh, we can probably find this island of yours without you eventually, anyway. But, as there are, shall we say, other interested parties who have recently made time of the essence, it would be so much easier if you were to provide some modicum of assistance. Certainly, that would go a long way towards clearing your name of any accusations of wrongdoing on your part that might be…suggested.”

“Convenient, seeing as how you’re the one doing the suggesting,” Steve snapped, mouth twisting into a grimace. 

“Captain Rogers, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Stane replied, looking at Steve from under his brow. “Look, after all this is over, you can go back to New York as you planned. I’ll even throw in your wages from the  _ Valkryie _ . I don’t  _ have _ to be your enemy,” he added in an ingratiating tone. “But, I can be. And I don’t think you’d like that very much. You…the negro and the orphan boy. I don’t think that would go well for any of you, do you, Captain?”

“They have nothing to do with this,” Steve grated out.

“Both were with you not just on the  _ Valkyrie _ , but your other sailings, too. Both helped you usurp Zemo’s command, both went along with your plan to get everyone else off the ship and saw to it that they were safely out of range of the  _ Valkyrie _ before she disappears from our little story. And now, I hear both are looking to head back to New York with you, on your dole,” Stane recounted. “Doesn’t seem as if they quite have  _ nothing  _ to do with this. If Captain Zemo were to bring his charges to the marshal, of course, I would be obligated to share my own concerns. The punishment for mutiny is still fairly severe, Captain. The penalty for stealing a ship, now, that’s piracy, as I understand it, and I’m sure you know the way the marshal handles pirates. You’ve seen them, swinging from their ropes in the town square. Quite the spectacle, I hear. Everyone loves a good hanging.”

“You have absolutely no evidence of any of this—this madness,” Steve protested. It sounded weak, even to his own ears.

“What makes you think I need evidence to get what I want, Captain?” Stane asked. 

And that, Steve knew, was far too true. Stark Industries was one of the largest companies in the world, and Stark Trading Company employed half the Caribbean in one way or another. If Stane wanted to drum up charges, as paper thin as they were, Steve knew he, Sam and Peter wouldn’t stand much of a chance. Steve stared at Stane for a long moment, his teeth grinding together so hard, he was surprised Stane couldn’t hear it across his desk. 

“I’ll take you to the island, or as near thereabouts as I can get you,” Steve told him around a sigh of defeat. “The best I can do is find the general area. The rest is up to you. When we’re done, I want my wages and safe passage for me, Sam and Peter back to New York, no matter what you find or don’t find.”

“See? I knew he could be reasonable,” Stane said, looking about the room for affirmation. “We have a deal, then, Captain,” Steve stood, glaring at Rumlow and Rollins for a moment, then turned to follow them out of the cabin. “Oh, wait. Here,” Stane said, holding out the map and stylus for Steve. “You’re going to want to fill this in as best you can. Don’t worry. I have copies if you make a mistake.” Steve grimaced, but snatched the map from Stane’s outstretched hand and turned to follow his captors out. 

“Captain,” Stane called out to Steve’s back. “One other question for you. You didn’t happen to...encounter anyone else out there? On this little adventure of yours?”

He knows, Steve thought wildly, which was impossible, he realized as soon as the moment of panic passed, but the unsettled feeling remained. Steve could almost feel the blood draining from his face. His back stiffened, and the map in his hand crinkled in his grip as his fist clenched. 

“No. No one,” Steve replied. “It was a lonely few months out there. Just glad I made it back in one piece.”

“Aren’t we all?” Stane said, a smirk in his voice. “Please see the Captain to his quarters, won’t you, gentlemen? We sail for his mysterious island in the morning. I hope your memory is reliable, Captain. It would be such a shame to get my hopes up of finding some more of Tony’s effects, only to be disappointed yet again.”

Steve spared Stane one glance over his shoulder, then followed Rumlow and Rollins back to the same cramped room he had been given before, listening as they locked the door behind him. He lit the small lamp that was attached to the wall by the bed and curled up, staring down at the map in his hands. His eyes blurred, and he leaned his head back against the wall behind him, listening for the sound of the sea. A long, low breath seeped out of him. Steve tucked the stylus between his lips for a moment, then dropped it down to the paper in his lap and started to draw, a smile slowing forming. 

Hold tight, Shellhead, I owe you a rescue, he thought to himself, grin widening. 


	8. Chapter 8

The  _ Iron Monger _ was six days out of port when Steve thought he spotted Shellhead’s island. Out here, the sea was dotted with small, rocky islands, like pebbles some giant once dropped, making it hard to get any kind of bearing, but Steve was fairly sure he was right. They had been searching the area Steve marked on the sea chart in a grid pattern with nothing to show for it except frustration when Steve thought he recognized the standing rocks that formed the cave where he and Shellhead spent their afternoons. 

Of course, he didn’t volunteer that information to Stane. Instead, he pointed the ship to the East, where a string of islands laid out in a thin row proved fruitless. Steve could tell by the looks he was getting from Rumlow and the rest of his mercenaries that patience with him was running low, but they needed him, or thought they did. 

Two days ago, the ship started circling back in the direction of where Steve thought Shellhead’s island might be, though he couldn’t see it from the deck. He thought they were close, though. He was almost certain the island they passed this morning was one they had passed before, right around the time he thought he had seen Shellhead’s island. It was small, little more than a large hill sticking out of the water, really, and marked by a lone palm tree determinedly standing in its center, clinging to a small patch of dirt the way some of the German families who lived in nearby tenements used to put a candle atop a cake for birthdays. They passed the island with the palm tree, then there was a larger one that was almost all rocks, and then, he thought, Shellhead’s island would be just ahead. 

Given the winds and how calm the sea was, by Steve’s reckoning, the  _ Iron Monger _ would be in sight of Shellhead’s island soon, and given the way his morning meeting with Stane had gone, Steve didn’t think he had much time left before they stopped pretending to play nicely, if one could consider threatening to have him, Sam and Peter hanged for piracy playing nicely, that is. This left Steve with precious little time. 

Which meant, Steve figured as Rumlow and Rollins escorted him up to the deck where he spent most of his days in the crow’s nest with Rumlow looking impatiently over his shoulder, occasionally hurling insults at him, this was probably his best opportunity he would have, even if it wasn’t ideal. 

It had been a long time since Steve had thrown a punch, but his body remembered how to do it. Longer still since he’d been in a real fight, and close quarters like this took away most of the advantage of surprise. But, it still gave him the sliver of advantage he needed. Neither of the men saw it coming. Steve’s fist connected with Rumlow’s jaw, and he went reeling headfirst into the stairs leading up to the deck with a solid smack. Rollins was big and solid, but slow, Steve had observed. He used his size to keep from having to fight, Steve figured, and never really actually learned how to do much more than jab one of his meaty fists at someone. It took a well-placed kick to the groin for him to fall to his knees. Steve took the chance Rollins’ momentary stillness gave to slam Rollins’ head into the wall hard enough to split the wood. Rollins slumped to the side with a groan, just as Rumlow got up on unsteady feet and reached for his pistol. 

Steve grabbed for Rumlow’s wrist, twisting it as hard as he could as he threw his shoulder into Rumlow’s chest, jabbing two quick punches into his side where Steve knew from experience it would hurt. The next punch was to Rumlow’s throat, so he couldn’t call for help. Rumlow made a gasping, choking sound, eyes wide with a sort of comically surprised look. With a quick snap of his wrist, Steve twisted the pistol out of Rumlow’s hand and onto the floor just below the stairs, sending both him and Steve scrambling for it, which only managed to send it skittering across the small hallway. 

Steve rolled against Rumlow, planting his feet and swinging wildly. One of Rumlow’s fists clipped the side of Steve’s head, just above his temple, and his vision swam, but he managed to twist behind Rumlow and wrap his arm around the other man’s already damaged throat. Rumlow kicked out, bracing his feet off the wall in the cramped hallway to push Steve backwards, but Steve held his grip against Rumlow’s throat. His hands scabbered ineffectually at Steve’s arm where it wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off his air. It seemed to Steve to take forever, though he knew it really was only a few moments, but finally, Rumlow made a gargling sound and went limp. 

Steve carefully lowered Rumlow to the floor and looked over his shoulder, where the stairs led up to the deck, listening carefully for the telltale sound of approaching footsteps, but none came. He picked up Rumlow’s pistol and took the one from Rollins for good measure. He wouldn’t be able to use them with the powder soaked, but they wouldn’t either, so he considered that a win. 

As silently as he could, Steve pushed open the small door to the main deck just enough to peek out. The _Iron Monger, _being a personal craft and not meant for hauling or long distances, wasn’t a particularly large ship, and at least this voyage, she was sparsely crewed with only those few that Stane seemed to trust were in his pocket enough to bring on this little adventure. Still, Steve could see a few of the crew milling about on deck. Many of the crew weren’t sailors, at least not first and foremost, having obviously been chosen for other skillsets, and they tended to let the few who did know about the running of the ship handle most of the duties. Which meant that most of the crew was either busy at their tasks or down in the crew quarters near the front of the ship, sitting around playing dice or drinking their allotment of rum by now. 

Ducking back down below, Steve stepped over Rumlow and Rollins and crept down the small hallway, then down, descending the narrow stairs into the hold where the  _ Iron Monger _ had a few four-pounders sitting on carts, their long barrels facing the gun ports that ran along the sides of the ship. They were idle now, of course, though iron cannonballs were stacked neatly beside each of them and the long metal rammers lined the wall, ready for action. The lids of the gun ports were closed now. Steve supposed Stane didn’t think anyone was fool enough to want to bring down the wrath of the U.S. Navy and Stark Trading Company by attacking this particular ship, particularly when she carried nothing of import. It was good for him, though, since it meant he didn’t have to worry about untying the cannon carts and trying to wheel the massive guns out of the way. Instead, he unlocked the gun port’s inner lid, then popped open the outer lid and looked out to the sea churning below as the ship took her course. 

He didn’t have much time. His absence would be noted soon, Steve knew, and that was  _ if _ Rumlow and Rollins stayed unconscious. Peering out the gun port, he tossed the two pistols into the water just as a wave hit the side of the ship and tried to judge the distance down to the waterline. Simply jumping out could attract attention and end up with Steve sucked under the ship, so he grabbed the tail end of the rope that tied the cannon down and unwound one of the knots until he had enough length to lower himself down and give him a chance to shove off. The cannon weighed at least a thousand pounds, so he figured it could hold him. Wrapping one end of the rope around his arm, he kicked off his shoes, then swung first one leg out the gun port, then the other and started to lower himself down the side of the ship. 

It was harder than he imagined it would be when he was planning this in his head. Winds buffeted him, sending him flailing against the hull for a moment before he caught his hand on the edge of the gun port. With fits and starts, he lowered himself until he was right above the water, then braced his feet against the side of the ship and heaved himself backwards, letting go of the rope as he did. He flew back, away from the ship, and hit the water hard enough to knock the air out of him. The cold of the water and pain of landing nearly flat on his back shocked his body into momentary numbness, and the sudden pull of the ship as it passed nearly caught him. He struggled to get his limbs to move, swimming hard against the suction as he tumbled and twisted through the water. It didn’t feel like he was moving, just swimming in place, but then the ship was past, and Steve broke the surface with a gasp, shaking the water from his eyes.

No shouts of alarm came from the ship. Not that he could hear, anyway. Not yet. No one pointed at where he treaded water or tossed a rope over. It wouldn’t be long and they’d realize he was gone, though, Steve thought as he glanced around to get his bearings. 

The sun was straight in front of him, which meant he needed to swim left to get to where he thought Shellhead’s island would be. If he was wrong, well…if he was wrong, then so be it, Steve grimaced as a wave carried him forward. He had to try. He couldn’t just do nothing and let that Coulson guy hunt Shellhead down like he was a criminal or let someone like Stane find him. God only knew what Stane would do to someone like Shellhead. He couldn’t even let himself think about that.

He wasn’t a great swimmer. Growing up in Brooklyn hadn’t exactly lent itself to swimming lessons, though he had gotten better during his time on the island. He was in good shape, though, and he hadn’t quite anticipated just how difficult swimming in waves like this would be. Also, he quickly realized that judging the distance to the island from the deck of a ship was a bit of an imperfect science. What had looked swimmable from the ship, turned out to be much farther away than he had anticipated. It felt like he had been swimming for hours and only made it a small part of the way, though he suspected he really hadn’t been at it nearly so long. Still, Steve swam. 

He kept swimming until he couldn’t feel his arms and legs anymore. His muscles had gone from jittery to limp. He floated a bit, letting himself rest and catch his breath. A particularly large wave lifted him, and there it was. Shellhead’s island. The cave with the rocks jutted out at one end, just like Steve remembered. He grinned and let out a whoop, splashing his hands against the surface of the water. 

Momentarily buoyed by the sight, Steve started to swim again, but didn’t make it very far before his lungs felt like they were going to burst and his arms and legs went rubbery and useless again. He could see the whole island now, though. 

“Shellhead!” Steve called out, forming his hands around his mouth as he shouted. “Shellhead, are you there? Shellhead!”

He waited, kicking his legs beneath him to keep afloat, but no familiar splash appeared. A wave hit him, sending him under, and Steve came up spluttering. He was exhausted, but so close, he couldn’t stop now. The breakpoint in front of the island, where the waves rolled when they hit the rocky shoal below the surface wasn’t too far. If he could just make that, he thought maybe the tide would push him in the rest of the way to the shore.

The  _ Iron Monger _ would circle back soon enough. Stane would figure out why Steve jumped, no doubt, and there were only so many islands around here to check. He had to warn Shellhead. Somehow. He had to. If something happened to Shellhead when he could have done something, he’d never forgive himself. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Steve started swimming again, though soon ended up more or less paddling along the way a dog would. He tried to float, but the waves battered at him, sending him under time and time again. Water went down his throat, and he came up coughing and spluttering, arms grasping at the surface like he was trying to hang on. The waves were harder now, closer to the island. They rolled over him, forcing him under. Each time, it seemed almost like there was an invisible hand beneath him, pulling him out to sea each time he went under. He dove under the water, through one of the waves, kicking as hard as he could to try to free himself from it, but ended up only tiring himself as he fought against the invisible current.

Steve broke the surface with a gasp, spitting out water as another wave hit him, sending him under again. He grunted and shook his head as he came up again, blinking the stinging water out of his eyes. Some rescue, he thought with a flat frown. He could  _ see _ the island, right there in front of him. He couldn’t stop now. Shellhead’s life depended on him, dammit, he couldn’t mess this up, but God help him, it still seemed so far away, and he was so tired. Come on, Rogers, he berated himself. You’ve marched for days, you can do this. 

“Shell—” Steve started, then swallowed a rush of water as a wave slammed into him. He choked on it, coughing and spitting as he thrashed in the water. 

Then, just as suddenly, Steve was wrapped in a familiar, velvety embrace that coiled around his waist and lifted him above the water. Against his ear, Steve heard a loud, chittering sound, almost like an angry bird, and he grinned, leaning back until his head slumped against Shellhead’s shoulder. He twisted his head, gaze catching for a moment on his sutler’s coin where it hung around Shellhead’s neck just above the blue stone necklace Shellhead always wore. 

“Miss me?” Steve asked, then laughed a wet, choking laugh as Shellhead glared down at him while his tentacles swirled in and out of the water. A giddy exuberance filled him. It felt so good to see Shellhead again. So good. Just about the best feeling in the world, Steve thought. It was so familiar and easy, slipping back into this kind of happiness, like coming home after too long of a time away. 

Oh, Steve thought as realization seemed to land on his chest with a thud. I love him.

I love him. 

I love Shellhead. 

_ I’m in love with Shellhead _ .

Steve blinked up at Shellhead, soaking the sight of him in for a long moment. His heart pounded. His chest seemed to swell near to bursting with a rush of emotions he could barely name. Love, joy, desire, worry, and on the heels of it all, a bittersweet pang that it had taken him this long to realize, that it had taken the risk of losing Shellhead for Steve to finally see what he had. I love him, Steve thought with a fierce certainty that took him by surprise. I love him. This is what love feels like, and I get to have it, even just for this one, blinding moment, and it is worth everything. Every single thing that happened, for this one, perfect moment. 

Had Shellehad always been this beautiful, Steve wondered. Probably. Or, maybe it was just so good to see him again, Steve couldn’t say, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Shellhead, and indulged himself, staring up at Shellhead as they swam. Shellhead was golden and gleaming in the sunlight, his eyes flecked with greens and warm honey-browns, his hair a mass of wet curls that clung to his forehead in little whorls. His goatee was neatly trimmed, of course, because Shellhead was meticulous like that, Steve thought with what must look like a fool’s grin. He had a strong jaw, wide eyes framed by ridiculously long lashes, strong hands and sculpted arms, and Steve thought he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve said simply.

Shellhead looked down at him, a confused expression marring his features. His mouth opened and closed, while his gills fluttered with anxious, worried sounds, but his hands and tentacles couldn’t seem to stop touching Steve. One hand patted Steve’s forehead, like he was checking for a fever, while his tentacles glided over Steve’s arms and legs, curling around his waist, even petting his hair.

“I missed you, Shellhead, God, did I ever,” Steve told him. He reached up and cupped his hand under Shellhead’s jaw, rubbing his thumb against the rough scrape of Shellhead’s beard. “More than I ever imagined. I wish I’d never left.” 

Shellhead’s mouth parted in a soft sound of surprise as his eyes went wide, then softened. He stroked a hand over Steve’s cheek, brow pulling into a frown. He jerked his head out towards the water, then shook his head and pointed at Steve, his expression holding a question.

“But, I guess it was good that I did, though,” Steve continued with a sigh. “If I hadn’t, I’d have never known and…Shellhead, you gotta listen to me. You’re in danger. I know what you’ve been doing out here with the Ten Rings. So does Obadiah Stane, the head of Stark Trading Company. They’re after you. You have to get out of here. I came here on the  _ Iron Monger _ , Stane’s ship,” Steve said, watching Shellhead’s eyes widen as his head twisted around, scanning the water even as his grip tightened protectively around Steve as they floated. 

“He saw that cup you gave me and thinks I found the wreckage of Tony Stark’s ship,” Steve explained. “He was gonna go after Sam and Peter if I didn’t help him, but I needed to get out here and warn you, anyway, because the government’s looking for you, too, Shellhead. Some man from some kind of fancy agency, he’s poking around, trying to figure out who is taking out the Ten Rings. They think it’s someone using Stark’s weapons from the  _ Avalon _ , maybe, and they are not too keen on that kind of firepower being in unknown hands. My bet is, they’re keeping an eye on Stane, and I doubt they’re too far behind him. You have to leave, do you hear me? Get out of here. Somewhere safe. I’m sorry, I know I just got here, and I wish we had more time, but you need to go. Now.”

Steve gazed up at Shellhead, his heart constricting in his chest. I just figured it out, and now I’m going to lose him for good, Steve thought to himself with a pang of bittersweet resignation. At least Shellhead would be safe, though, and that was all that mattered. 

Shellhead wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were locked on the horizon. When he finally did look down at Steve, his eyes were hard and his jaw set with a determined look that Steve recognized all too well, since he’d seen it in the mirror more than a few times.

“Now, don’t you go getting any ideas,” Steve warned, but then they were moving through the water at a far greater clip than Steve ever could have on his own. “These men are dangerous, Shellhead. Stane isn’t just some businessman. He’s dangerous, Shellhead. He’s obsessed with finding whatever it is he thinks might be left of Tony Stark’s ship for some reason.”

Shellhead nodded and hummed a kind of distracted assent that didn’t do much to placate Steve. He knew his friend better than that. Shellhead was underneath Steve, keeping Steve afloat while his powerful tentacles pushed them through the water, but Steve could follow his gaze out towards the sea where the  _ Iron Monger _ had to be lurking. It wasn’t long before they were past the breakpoint and into the shallows, where Steve could put his feet down. He stood, wobbling a bit on shaky legs as the tide swayed him in and out. Once he was steady, Shellhead finally released him, giving him a long, considering look as he did. 

“I mean it, Shellhead. You have to leave. You can’t stay here. Not with Stane, what’s left of the Rings and the government after you,” Steve argued. Three of Shellhead’s tentacles rose out of the water and then dove down hard, splitting the water with large splashes. “It’s not that simple! I know you’ve been taking out the Rings, but…they aren’t going to stop coming after you, Shellhead. Not if you keep at this. You’re talking about the government, maybe even the Navy, I don’t know. And Stane, he has the whole of Stark Industries behind him, you can’t just—yeah, yeah, splash all you want. I get it, you don’t like him much, do you? Well, you can’t just go around sinking Stane’s ships, Shellhead. Don’t you—no, no, you can’t! Don’t give me that look. It’s too dangerous. He’s, I don’t know, he’s  _ bad _ , Shellhead. He isn’t someone you want for an enemy.”

Shellhead pointed at Steve, tossed his hands up in the air and huffed a wet puff of air through his gills. He waved a hand at the expanse of sea, a tentacle mimicking the gesture. Steve wiped his hand over his mouth to cover a smile, ducked his head, then looked up at Shellhead again. 

“Well, yeah, I suspect he isn’t my biggest fan at the moment, but…I had to come warn you,” Steve replied with a shrug. “You were in trouble.”

Shellhead waved his hands up and down himself, then pointed at the water and gave Steve a wide-eyed, exasperated look. 

“I’ll be fine,” Steve assured him, though as he said it, he wasn’t really sure that was true. “They’ll...they’ll probably just realize there’s nothing to find once they see the island’s empty and head back to port,” Steve added weakly. Shellhead gave him an almost comically incredulous look. 

“Fine, yes, maybe this was crazy, but you can’t think I’d just leave you to—to whatever they’re going to do to you,” Steve protested. “You saved my life and…you’re my friend. You’re…important to me, Shellhead, more than…more than…” he trailed off, biting his lip as he looked at Shellhead, who drew in a breath, his face falling into a softly resigned look. 

“Stane has men, mercenaries, I think. They aren’t just regular sailors, that’s for sure. And he has almost a whole crew of them, headed this way,” Steve pleaded. Shellhead crossed his arms over his chest, raised an eyebrow and smacked the top of the water with his tentacles. “They have guns, Shellhead. Guns. Cannons, too. If you’ve been doing what I think you’ve been doing, then I know you know what those are, so try to look a little impressed, would you?” Steve demanded with a frustrated grimace. His jaw clenched hard as he looked at Shellhead, grief and fear and wonder churning deep inside his chest, seeming to push Steve’s heart into his throat. 

“Please, Shellhead,” Steve begged, his voice thick and almost breaking. “Please. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you.” 

Steve moved through the water until he was in front of Shellhead. He reached out and took the sutler’s coin between his fingers, gaze fixing on it as he thought about what it meant and why he’d given it to Shellhead. Maybe he had known, deep down, even back then. Shellhead went still. Even his tentacles ceased their swirling and floated limply in the water. 

“Maybe this is crazy,” Steve repeated, his voice soft as set the coin back in its place at Shellhead’s throat and looked into Shellhead’s wide, startled eyes. Steve honestly wasn’t even sure if he was talking about his plan to warn Shellhead or something else. Maybe it didn’t really matter anymore, they were one and the same, weren’t they? 

“When I thought something might happen to you, all I could think about was getting back to you, making sure you were okay. Even before that, you were all I could think of. I kept thinking it would fade or I’d get past it, this feeling I kept having about how much I missed you, but it didn’t. It just got worse,” Steve admitted. “Then I thought, if I left, went back to New York, maybe then it would get better, but I could never quite get myself to leave, you know? I kept saying I was leaving, you know, then something would come up, and I would put it off. I tried to get Peter and Sam to come, thinking, well, then I’d really do it, except Peter wanted to write his aunt, and then Sam was thinking about one more sailing, and then there was all of this…point is, there was always something keeping me here. Some _ one _ keeping me here.”

Shellhead’s mouth opened and closed. His hands came up to grip Steve’s arms as he tilted his head, shaking it a bit, eyes drooping closed with an expression that looked almost pained. He glanced away, expression tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Steve reached out, cupped his cheek and felt Shellhead lean into his hand with a resigned sigh, his eyes closing for a moment before fixing on Steve again.

“I couldn’t let anything happen to you,” Steve repeated, the bands around his chest seeming to tighten into vices. “I could tell you all the reasons it was wrong to let Stane win, how I owed you, how you are my friend, how I wouldn’t leave anyone to the mercy of someone like Stane, I could tell you all of those things, and they’re true, Shellhead, they are. But, the other truth, the one that was so scared of for so long, is that I couldn’t let anything happen to you. I couldn’t live with that. Because…I love you, Shellhead,” Steve said, shifting a little between his feet as he watched Shellhead’s expression turn to shock and felt his body tense, going rigid. 

Steve rushed on, the words seeming to tumble out of him now, worried that he had scared Shellhead or said something wrong. Shellhead’s expression looked oddly pained, and he was twisting out of Steve’s grip, even as Steve reached for him.

“I know what that sounds like, I know. I know it’s impossible, I just don’t care, not anymore. You don’t have to feel the same, and that’s…that’s fine,” Steve said, trying to clear the lump from his throat. “I understand. All that matters is that I love you, Shellhead, I do. More than I ever thought I could love anyone, and if that’s wrong, then I guess it won’t be the first time I’ve been told I love the wrong way. Besides,” Steve added, feeling a flush creep up his neck as he ducked his head, overcome for a moment. “I had to come back for this, didn’t I?” he said, reaching out to tap a finger against the sutler’s coin, but he left his hand there, pressed against Shellhead’s chest. His throat constricted, and he forced himself to swallow down the swell of emotion as he stared down at his hand splayed out over his coin, over Shellhead’s heart, where it thudded in time with Steve’s own. My heart, Steve thought, then smiled softly. “I’ll always come back for this.”

All of a sudden, Shellhead’s body seemed to seize, like an unseen force was squeezing him. His back arched. The cords stood out in his neck as his grip on Steve’s armed tightened painfully, his fingers digging into Steve’s skin like claws. Shellhead threw back his head, his mouth falling open into a silent scream as his body writhed against Steve, tentacles thrashing uncontrollably.

“Shellhead!” Steve cried out, grasping for him. His arms wrapped around Shellhead’s waist as Shellhead’s hands let go of Steve and clamored for the blue necklace, which was…glowing? Steve’s eyes dropped to it, mouth opening in terror as Shellhead started to shake like he was coming apart. His tentacles shuddered and coiled, vibrating down to their tips with some kind of unknown force. 

“Shellhead, what—what’s wrong? Shellhead, please, talk to me! What—” Steve shouted, panic gripping him. Blinding, blue light swamped Steve’s vision, and he felt a strange course of energy run through him, the way it sometimes felt just before a storm was about the best his mind could come up with. “What is that? Shellhead!”

Shellhead was trembling under Steve’s hands. As the blue light filled Steve’s gaze, Shellhead wrenched himself out of Steve’s arms and splashed under the water, his tentacles winding up and curling tightly underneath him like they were on a spool as he hunched over. Steve reached for him, grabbing him under the arms and heaving him up. He was almost thrown off balance at the unexpected ease of it, but then Shellhead was gasping and choking, fingers of one hand scraping at his neck while the other hand grasped his necklace, tore it off, and threw it towards the beach, where it landed in the sand with a soft plop. 

“Shellhead, are you okay? What was that, what,” Steve stopped as Shellhead reached out and grabbed for him, seeming to sink and stumble as he looked for purchase. 

“OH MY GOD!” Shellhead shouted, sucking in a deep breath. “Oh my God! Steve!” he turned, too quickly, it seemed. Steve stared at him, mouth agape. 

Shellhead could  _ talk _ . 

“Steve,” Shellhead said again, all breathy and soft this time, like the name held some kind of wonderment. 

“You can—did you just—when did you?” Steve stammered, shaking his head in confusion. “You talk?”

Shellhead grinned, a madly exhilarated look, started to move, and nearly fell into Steve’s chest face first as he tried to turn. He let out a rough, shaky laugh as he ran a hand up and down his neck. Steve’s eyes followed the motion, and realized Shellhead’s gills were gone. 

“What happened to your,” Steve started to say ‘gills’ then the water settled and his gaze dropped down to where Shellhead’s tentacles were supposed to be. “Shellhead,” Steve said with a confused frown as he pulled back and looked his friend up and down. 

The tentacles were gone. Just gone. A man stood in front of him. A man like any other. Except, well. The man was rather naked, Steve realized, swallowing hard and quickly looking away.

“Steve,” Shellhead laughed, drawing out Steve’s name in delight. “Steve, you did it, you really—you really do, don’t you? I mean, that’s the only way it would work, if you did, so you must, but I never thought…why would I? My God, you,” Shellhead paused, looking up at him, his eyes bright and face tight with emotion. “You really love me. You really do,” he said, his eyes cresting into halfmoons as he gazed up at Steve, “You don’t even know who I am, and you love me anyway. Even like I was. You amazing, wonderful, reckless fool of a man. My God, you did it.”

“I—what?” Steve stuttered breathlessly, his mind roiling with confusion. “What—where are—your...your, ah,” Steve said, since that seemed to be the only thing his brain was capable of at the moment. “Shellhead, what’s…what’s going on? Please, I—I don’t understand, and you’re…um. You’re, uh, naked.”

“Huh?” Shellhead said, then looked down. “Oh, that. Right, well. Believe it or not, this is actually not the strangest place I’ve been found without my clothes. It’s top ten, though.” He smiled up at Steve, like he was sharing some kind of private joke. 

“Here,” Steve said, tugging his shirt over his head and handing it to Shellhead. “You should. You know.”

“Thanks,” Shellhead said, a sort of bemused smile softening his face as he tied Steve’s shirt around his waist. “Steve.  _ Steve _ ,” he shook his head. _ “ _ God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say that out loud. Steve,” Shellhead laughed reaching his hands up to cup Steve’s face. “I know how strange this all is. Believe me, I know. I have so much to tell you, and I will, I promise. But first, I want to do two things. I want to get out of this water and walk on the beach. Walk. As in, upright.”

“Of—of course,” Steve replied, as Shellhead took his hand and pulled him towards the shore. “How are…you are you a man now?”

“A valid question,” Shellhead huffed. “You must have a hundred questions, I’m sure, and I’m going to answer as many as I can,” Shellhead assured him as he stepped out of the water and dug his toes into the sand, looking over at Steve with a sigh of pure pleasure. He ducked his head, walked a few steps, hopped up and down, kicked one leg out, then the other, then sank down onto the sand, curling his toes in and flicking clumps of it as he wiggled his feet. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s just been awhile. With the whole walking on legs thing.”

“You’re…a man,” Steve said, feeling stupid as soon as he said it. Obviously, Shellhead was a man. Now. Steve could see that plainly enough. Legs and, well. Everything that a man had. Steve hadn’t been able to really keep from noticing that. “That necklace…it did something to you, didn’t it?”

“That is certainly one way to put it,” Shellhead said, side-eyeing the necklace where it lay in the sand. “I’ll explain everything, I promise, but…it seems we have a more pressing matter to deal with at the moment,” he finished nodding towards the water. 

Steve followed Shellhead’s gaze out to the sea where cloudlike puffs of sails billowed in the distance. 

“Stane,” Steve said.

“It would appear so,” Shellhead agreed. “We don’t have much time. How many men would you say were aboard?”

“Maybe thirty crew, plus Stane and six mercenaries,” Steve said. “But, we can hide you! In the cave or something. Even if they find you, they wouldn’t have any reason to think you had anything to do with what’s been happening to the Rings. We could just tell them you were stranded here, too, or something…they’re not going to buy that, are they?”

“Nope. And, they’re definitely going to know it was me after the Rings,” Shellhead replied, almost brightly, as he stood up and brushed the sand off.

“How?” Steve asked.

“Because Obadiah Stane tried to have me murdered by the Ten Rings,” Shellhead said. He said it so calmly, like he was reporting the day’s weather or some such trifling matter, that it took Steve a moment to grasp the import of the words. Shellhead glanced over at Steve with a wan smile. “He’s likely already guessed at least part of what’s been going on, though almost certainly not the whole of it. At least, I’m sure he has realized by now that the Rings didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. He’s probably been tracking the incidents with the Rings for years, keeping an eye and ear out.”

“He asked me, back in port when his goons pulled me into his office, he asked if I’d seen anyone else out here…” Steve recalled, dread snaking down his spine. “Wait, who are you? Why would Stane want to have you murdered?”

“I’ll explain everything, I promise,” Shellhead said. “They’re lowering the anchor. The ashore boats will be next. We don’t have much time.”

Steve looked out to sea again, and sure enough, the  _ Iron Monger’s _ huge anchor was dropping towards the sea. 

“Then all the more reason to hide you,” Steve said, urgency seeping into his voice as he looked from one end of the island to the other. “Maybe Stane does suspect, but he doesn’t  _ know _ . There aren’t many good hiding places here, but…”

“Steve? Think you’ll still love me in, say, twenty minutes?” Shellhead asked. 

“What?” Steve blurted out, frowning over at Shellhead. “I mean, yes, I think—I mean, you’re different, but, still you, so.” Shellhead looked at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. Steve stopped and stared at him for a moment, realization dawning. “Yes. I’ll still love you in twenty minutes,” Steve sighed, then bent down and picked up the necklace. “Are you sure?”

“If you have any other suggestions, I’m listening,” Shellhead replied. 

“I’ll do it,” Steve suggested immediately.

“That might be the most stupidly self-sacrificing thing anyone has ever offered to do for me, but it took me weeks just to get used to being that creature,” Shellhead told him. “We can’t risk that. Plus, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“The weapons that were on the  _ Avalon _ ?” Steve guessed.

“Most were damaged or waterlogged, but I’m pretty good at fixing things,” Shellhead said. “It wasn’t like I didn’t have time on my, er, hands. And, you know. Extra hands. So to speak. I’ve got a couple mines stashed out by the rocks.”

“You hid mines by the rocks where you liked to sun?” Steve demanded. “Wait, how did you even know about the  _ Avalon _ and all of that?” Steve asked.

“A valid question, which I assure you will be answered in due time, but I’m afraid we are currently out of time,” Shellhead said, gesturing towards the water where the first boat filled with men was being unmoored from the  _ Iron Monger _ . Another boat loomed above it, waiting to be lowered to the water, and Steve knew a third likely waited as well. 

“If you ever accuse me of being reckless again, I plan on reminding you of this exact moment,” Steve sighed as he held the necklace out for Shellhead.

“And I plan to hold you to that for many years to come,” Shellhead said, taking the necklace from Steve’s outstretched hand while a grimace of resignation formed on Steve’s face. “Oh, don’t be so glum,” Shellhead said. “If this works, think of the possibilities,” he added, then winked. 

Steve blinked at him, opened his mouth, caught up, and then snapped his mouth closed again. He could feel his face flaming with embarrassment, and his eyes darted over to Shellhead before he could stop himself.

“I know we’re not talking about that right now, and probably this isn’t the best time, what with at least three boats full of very well-armed men heading our way with, dare I say, not a pure thought in their black hearts, but I do admit to having given that thing we aren’t talking about a considerable amount of thought,” Shellhead said with an exaggerated leer, which just made Steve’s blush deepen. Which, in turn, seemed to delight Shellhead.

“I…thought about… _ things _ , too. Sometimes,” Steve mumbled, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his head while the other went to his hip, mainly because he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his body, that big, ungainly feeling he got sometimes when he didn’t know what to do or say. 

“Steve?” Shellhead said, closing the distance between them. He reached for Steve’s hand, locked their fingers together, and pressed their joined hands to the center of his chest. “This is going to work.”

“If you say so,” Steve harrumphed, then softened, his mouth flattening into worry. “Be careful out there, you daft fish,” Steve grumbled. Shellhead beamed at him. 

“Promise. It turns out, I have a very good reason not to end up as anyone’s lunch,” Shellhead replied. “Think you can handle whoever makes it to shore?”

“Yes,” Steve said, remembering the cutlass Shellhead had brought him one time that was likely still back up at whatever was left of his makeshift cabin. It wasn’t particularly sharp after its time in the sea, but he figured it was better than nothing. And there was a shield, too. That old, barnacle-encrusted thing. Not much, but it could be useful.

“Steve?” Shellhead called.

“Y-yes?” Steve replied. 

“I love you, too. You know that, right?” Shellhead said, his eyes narrowing with concern. 

“Oh,” Steve replied, somewhat dumbstuck by the admission. Then, he grinned. “You do? Really?”

“I do,” Shellhead said, his voice somewhat shaky as he returned Steve’s smile. “Very much. I think I might have loved you from that very first night, when you couldn’t stop telling me all about yourself, like if you stopped talking, you’d have to realize just how bad things likely were for you. You must have been so scared. Out here, with just this strange creature, knowing what the odds of surviving were. Yet, you introduced yourself, all proper-like, and refused to curse in front of me, as if you might offend my delicate sensibilities or some such,” Shellhead smiled, almost sadly. “You were kind. Kinder than you probably should have been. And so brave.”

Steve huffed out a deprecating laugh. Truth be told, he didn’t remember that first night nearly as well as Shellhead did, but the knowledge that Shellhead loved him was enough to make him feel almost lightheaded with joy, even if their situation at the moment was more than a bit precarious. Maybe it was love clouding his judgment, hubris or just what Bucky called Steve’s annoying optimism, but Steve actually felt they had a small chance of actually surviving this. He figured he’d had worse odds. Shellhead loved him, and that was its own kind of confidence. They could do this, Steve told himself. Together, it felt like maybe they could do anything. 

“I don’t much remember that night,” Steve admitted. “Just remember being glad you were here. That I wasn’t alone. And being glad to be alive.”

“You talked about your stories,” Shellhead continued, his eyes soft on Steve. “About dreaming of adventures. The way you talked about them, that’s how you talked to me, like…like I was this amazing adventure you got to be a part of, and I’ll tell you, for years, I felt like what I was, it was the price I had to pay for years of missing what I should have seen, if I hadn’t been off—well. Let’s just say, I liked who I was through your eyes. Any other man would have looked at me with horror, or worse, with greed. You always looked at me with wonder, and for maybe the first time in my largely rather useless life, I wanted to deserve it. More than anything, I wanted that regard to be  _ earned _ . Steve Rogers, formerly of the Union Army, Irish Brigade, who reads Verne and knows about Hodgsons and his Yeti, who plays a wicked game of chess, takes on the U.S. government, pirates and the whole of Stark Industries on my behalf, who understood me better as that creature than anyone ever has,  _ yes _ . Yes, I love you. How could I not?” Shellhead said, glancing down at the necklace in his hands. “Er, on the off chance that this doesn’t work…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Shellhead. I told you. I’ll always come back for this. For you. Always, Shellhead. No matter what,” Steve replied, then let out a laugh that seemed to take on a life of its own. He whooped and grinned at Shellhead, basking in happiness for a moment. It felt so good to say it out loud, and Shellhead loved him, too, and they were maybe not going to die. It was all madness, wasn’t it, he thought, but oh, what an adventure. He rather thought that being with Shellhead, whatever that meant, would always be an adventure. The best kind of adventure. 

“I can almost hear Jarvis now,” Shellhead muttered under his breath, making Steve’s brow pull together with curiosity. “’Oh, dear Lord help me, there’s two of them.’” Shellhead mimicked in a posh accent that reminded Steve of Peggy. “Don’t worry, he’ll love you.”

“Who? What are you—” Steve started to ask.

“Nevermind. Later,” Shellhead said. 

“Oh—wait. What, ah, what should I call you? Now?” Steve asked.

“Shellhead’s good for now,” Shellhead told him. “I’ve grown rather fond of it, to tell you the truth. Ready?” Steve nodded. 

Shellhead undid Steve’s shirt from his waist and handed it back to him. Steve shoved his arms into the sleeves and studiously avoided looking at Shellhead. Well. Looking again. Shellhead shot him a sly look, then laughed, probably at Steve’s blush, and sauntered out into the water, giving his hips a little bit of a sway that Steve could tell was absolutely deliberate. Which, okay, sure, that meant he was technically looking, but Shellhead didn’t seem to mind, and, well, Shellhead was really nice looking. Steve had never really had free rein to look at a man’s body in appreciation before. He felt himself warm, heat spreading in a spiral that coiled low in his gut. Shellhead tossed him a knowing look over his shoulder, then dove into the waves. 

A moment later, thin rays of blue light shone through the water, and there was a great, bubbling splash. Shellhead appeared again, tentacles whirling out of water. He nodded at Steve, pressed his hand to his chest for a moment and wrapped the sutler’s coin in his fist, then he was gone, disappearing beneath the surface. 

All three of the  _ Iron Monger’s _ tender boats were rowing towards the breakpoint, Steve saw as he looked up. Time to make himself useful, he figured. He ran up the beach towards the remains of his cabin and dug out the old cutlass. The blade wouldn’t do much, but Steve liked having a weapon of some kind in his hand. He grabbed the shield, too. It was surprisingly light, he noticed, as he gave it a good, solid bang against a palm tree to try to loosen some of the crust and gunk from the surface. To his surprise, the debris almost melted away, leaving a gleaming, silver metal shining through.

“Would you look at that,” Steve said with surprise. The metal was unlike anything he had ever seen before, almost seeming to vibrate when he sliced the shield through the air. 

Now at least armed, Steve made his way back down to the beach. The boats were at the breakpoint now, the first one just topping over the waves, which was precisely when it tipped over, spilling its occupants into the sea. The crew of the second boat shouted something that was lost to the wind, then their boat seemingly exploded, splintering into two pieces that flew apart and were tossed into the churning waves.

“Nice work, Shellhead,” Steve said admiringly, as those in the water frantically swam for either the shore or the remaining boat. One by one, they disappeared under the waves. 

Steve could hear terrified shouting now, even over the crush of the waves. The crew of the third boat was firing into the water, making Steve wince with worry each time a bullet pierced the surface. Someone stood up in the middle of the boat. Steve could see them wave towards the  _ Iron Monger _ with some kind of signal, and a moment later, a huge boom rent the air as the  _ Iron Monger’s _ cannons fired, seemingly heedless of the men in the water, who screamed in panic.

“Shellhead!” Steve shouted, frantically rushing out knee-deep into the water as he scanned the waves for his friend. After what seemed like hours, Steve finally caught the familiar flash of red near one of the men in the water, just before the man’s head disappeared beneath the waves. 

The cannons boomed again, firing over the third boat, probably trying to clear it a path, Steve figured as it slid over the breakpoint and into the shallower waters. A moment later, the cannons fired again. Steve had time to realize he could hear the whine of the cannonballs as they cut through the air, then stumbled out of the water and ducked behind a rock just as two of them skidded across the sand, entirely too near where he had been standing a moment before for comfort. His ears were ringing. He peered over the rock he was using for cover, looking for Shellhead, but just saw a few of the  _ Iron Monger’s _ crew struggling in the waves.

The reports from the cannons sounded again. This time, two cannonballs landed out in the water near the debris from the tender boats, and another cannonball overshot Steve by only a few yards. He wasn’t going to be able to do much to help Shellhead if he was pinned down here, Steve thought with growing frustration as he watched the third ship ride the waves closer to shore. He could just make out Stane’s bald head, glinting in the sun. Another boom, and Steve could hear the whining buzz of the cannonball as it sliced through the air, headed straight for him. It’s going to hit me, he had time to think as he ducked again, covering himself with the shield. I’m sorry, Shellhead, he thought and went stiff as something hit the shield with enough force to rattle his teeth. 

Except, instead of killing him, as it rightfully should have, the iron ball bounced off the shield, landing in the sand next to Steve with a soft, plopping thud. He peeked out, then looked down at the shield he was holding with a new sense of amazement. Before he could get over his wonderment, a different kind of boom filled his ears. Instinctively, he ducked under the shield again, but after a moment, he lifted it up and followed the sound of the explosion. 

The  _ Iron Monger _ was on fire. Great plumes of smoke drifted up from her belly, where flames clawed at her sides from a giant hole near the cannon deck where Steve had escaped earlier today. 

“Guess you did have a surprise or two left, Shellhead,” Steve grinned as he peered over the rock. 

The third boat was only a hundred yards or so to shore. Steve could hear Stane’s deep voice shouting at them, even over the splintering cracks and pops of the  _ Iron Monger _ as she burned. A bullet hit the sand a few yards away with a whizzing pop, sending a spray of dirt into the air. A barrage of bullets followed, edging closer to where Steve hunched under the shield as the boat drew closer to the shore. One pinged off the shield, then another, and another.

I’m not going to be able to do much like this, Steve thought to himself, as more bullets sprayed around him and ricocheted off the shield. Then, just as suddenly as they started, the bullets stopped, though Steve could still hear the loud bangs of pistols firing. He straightened up and peered over the rock. The men in the boat were firing wildly into the water around them and a huge chunk of the side of the boat was just…missing. Like someone had torn it right off, splintering the wooden planks into jagged edges. This close to shore, they boat would likely make it, but barely, Steve realized as he watched the panicked men fire into the water while Stane yelled something and pointed at the damaged hull. 

A noise to his left made Steve whirl, shield and cutlass raised, only to face off against a very naked Shellhead, who held his hands up in mock surrender. The necklace dangled from one hand. 

“Guess our little experiment worked. Yay?” Shellhead said, shaking his head and spraying droplets of water as he coughed and sank down into the sand behind the rock next to Steve. 

“You’re hurt!” Steve shouted as he noticed the dark stain on Shellhead’s upper arm. 

“They could see me far too easily in the shallows,” Shellhead said by way of explanation. He reached up and covered the top of his arm where a curtain of red had appeared, running down his arm in long rivulets. 

“What the hell were you doing getting so close to the boat?” Steve demanded as he set the shield down, hissing the words through his teeth as he took Shellhead’s arm between his hands and looked at the wound. 

“It’s not bad. Just a graze, but we still have them to deal with,” Shellhead said, nodding towards where the third boat was pulling the damaged boat ashore. Men were spilling out the sides of it and rushing down the beach towards where Steve and Shellhead crouched behind the rock. Steve used the edge of the cutlass to cut off part of his shirt and quickly bandaged Shellhead’s arm as best he could. 

“Go, Shellhead, now, while they’re getting the boat out of the water,” Steve urged, shoving his shoulder into Shellhead’s. “I’ll hold them off.”

“Are you serious? I swear to  _ God _ ,” Shellhead shouted at him, bristling with anger. “I am not leaving you, Steve!”

“You could escape, Shellhead. You could make it. That was the whole point of coming back out here, to give you a chance,” Steve protested. “Whatever—whatever that thing is,” he nodded at the necklace, “it can get you out of here.”

“Putting aside that I don’t want to live my life as a fucking fish and the chances of finding anyone else on this Godforsaken planet that would ever even think of falling in love with me like that, like I said, I’m not leaving you,,” Shellhead ground out. “How could you even think that I’d just swim away? Really? You can’t stand to lose me? Well, ha! I can’t lose you, either. I can’t. Don’t even  _ think _ that. Don’t you dare, Steve, you promise me—you promise me, Steve, promise me!” Shellhead had grabbed Steve by the arms and was shaking him, his eyes wild and full of fear. “Promise me that you won’t do something stupidly self-sacrificing, not for me, because God-dammit, I can’t lose you. Not you, too, okay? I can’t, please, Steve, I  _ can’t _ ! So…so just shut it about that whole ridiculous idea, okay? You hear me? You promise me, Steve, I mean it, you  _ promise _ me!”

“I—alright, alright, Shellhead, I promise,” Steve agreed. He wasn’t quite sure what he was promising, but Shellhead was so worked up about it, he couldn’t help give in.

“Good, good,” Shellhead said with a sharp, firm nod, settling back a little and seeming to calm at Steve’s assurance. He glanced past Steve and down the beach where the men from the boat were hurrying towards them. “You could take it,” Shellhead said, brightening. “Steve, listen—don’t look at me like that—you could. Stane isn’t going to kill me, not yet, I don’t think. He wants something from me, and he’ll use you to get me to give it to him, which I will, because I fucking adore you, so if  _ you  _ took it and escaped—no, now, hear me out—if you took it, I could eventually escape and find you, and since I love you already, I’d definitely love whatever this turns you into—for some reason, my money’s on dolphin, maybe like a sailfish, I don’t—which is not the point. Anyway, I could find you and ta-da,” he snapped his fingers, “curse broken!”

“I’m not leaving you, Shellhead,” Steve said.

“ _ Fine _ ,” Shellhead grumped, “It isn’t like I don’t see the flaws in my plan. Any sudden and incredibly helpful ideas  _ you _ want to share?” he asked with a jerk of his head in the direction of the beach where Stane and his men were hurrying towards them. 

“Yeah, one,” Steve responded, stabbing the comparatively useless cutlass into the sand. He stood and brought the shield in front of him. Shellhead crouched behind him, making some attempt at modesty, such as it was. 

“Care to enlighten me?” Shellhead asked in a calm voice that was belied by the way he hunkered closer to Steve, leaning in as Stane and his men fast approached. “Because, and I don’t mean to be critical here, Steve, but this doesn’t seem like much of a plan.”

“Stay behind me. And trust me,” Steve replied, stretching his fingers around the shield’s grip and raising it up a bit.

“I do. Trust you, I mean,” Shellhead said. “When I get the chance to explain all of this, you’ll understand a bit more what that means to me.”

The men running at them had their pistols raised, Steve could see. They stopped in front of Steve, forming a semi-circle around him and Shellhead. Rumlow, Rollins and a few more that Steve recognized. He counted six men, all armed, plus Stane, who lumbered behind them, clearly not overly worried by the series of events or even all that surprised. 

“Well, well, well,” Stane announced with a smug smile as he approached. “Have to admit, I didn’t believe some of the reports I was getting. Too long at sea, and men see all kinds of crazy things, after all. Yet, here you are. Is that it?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace Shellhead was holding. “Huh. Look at that boys! You found it. Nicely done,” Stane smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “La Piedra del Alma. That’s what Cortes called it, anyway, isn’t that right? Klaue told me Raza had found it. Leave it to you to end up with some cursed relic of an ancient trickster god. Who would have thought it was actually real? Nice little party trick you have there,” he added, glancing over his shoulder where the  _ Iron Monger _ was smoldering. “Ironic, I suppose. You finally found the kind of thing you were always chasing after, and look where it got you,” Stane said, spreading his arms wide and looking around at the island.

“You never seemed to mind my little hobby. In fact, I seem to remember you encouraging it. Guess we know why, don’t we?” Shellhead shot back with a grim sigh.

“You know him?” Steve asked over his shoulder with a frown as he stared at Stane and the men surrounding them.

“I’ll explain,” Shellhead promised. “Just—"

“The Aztecs called him Huehuecóyotl,” Stane cut in, “though Tony here would probably tell you he has many names, I’m sure. But, that right there is the old coyote’s Soul Stone. Lets the wearer change his shape. Take on the forms of animals, or so the legend says. Guess it’s not a legend anymore, now is it?”

“Care to give it a try? Smart money’s on sea slug for you,” Shellhead retorted. 

“I think I’ll leave the shapeshifting to others, but that kind of power? Let’s just say, there are those who would be interested. For a price, of course,” Stane said.

“Wait, Tony?” Steve repeated through gritted teeth, tilting his head slightly, but not quite turning. “ _ Tony Stark? _ ” he hissed in question.

“You didn’t know?” Stane laughed, a chiding tinge to it. “My God, you really didn’t. No wonder he likes you so much, all good and brave and true. Some kind of hero, just like he always wanted to be. Too bad,” Stane tutted admonishingly. “You should have left him out of this, Tony.”

“If you hurt him, Obie, I swear to God—” Tony started.

“You’ll what? You’re not exactly in a position to bargain, Tony. Not that finding you naked with a handsome soldier is exactly new. You  _ do _ have a type,” Stane said, making the men around him titter with laughter.

“You really think I’d trust you after what you did?” Tony demanded. “Steve, don’t listen to him,  _ please _ . I am literally begging you to get to the part where you realize this is a good thing and skip over everything that’s about to go through your head,” Shellhead—no,  _ Tony Stark _ —pleaded with him. “I didn’t lie to you. I’d have told you if I could have, but the stone.…it wouldn’t let me. One of its little tricks, I guess.”

Tony Stark. Shellhead was Tony Stark. Of course, he was. It all fit. The  _ Avalon _ , the weapons, the Rings, Stane. How could he have been so blind? Tony Stark, genius, adventurer, inventor, _ billionaire _ . Jesus Christ, Steve thought to himself, then immediately wanted to make the sign of the cross in apology for the blasphemy. Tony Stark. Shellhead was Tony Stark, and Steve was…no one. A horrified, embarrassed squirming sensation filled his belly. God, he was an idiot, he was so, so stupid, how could he not have realized, he’d all but gushed to Shellhead about his admiration for, well,  _ him _ \--Steve shook his head. He couldn’t think about any of that now. He had to focus.

“Come to finish the job, Obie?” Tony asked from behind Steve. “Is that what this is about? You want the Stone, take it, here,” Tony said, tossing the stone to the sand in front of where Stane stood. “Just leave Steve out of it.”

“The plan was always to kill you, Tony,” Stane admitted. Steve tightened his grip on the shield, eyeing Stane and his men over the rim. “Figures that I’d have to do it myself. What can I say? You just can’t trust pirates these days,” Stane replied with a shrug. 

“Yeah, that kind of betrayal has to really sting,” Tony deadpanned, making Steve have to bite back a surprised laugh.

“You know, when I made the deal with Raza, I worried that I was killing the golden goose,” Stane said. “But, you see, it was just fate that you survived that. You had one last golden egg to give,” he continued, advancing through the men until he was standing just a few yards in front of Steve. “We’re going to change the world, Tony. Empires are crumbling all over the place. America is in ashes, too splintered to ever rise again. The world is ready for the dawn of a new age. States, countries, borders, these things are meaningless, Tony, you know that. You’ve said that. Technology. Money. Resources. That’s where the power lies. One company, with its fingers in the right places, can control the world, and we’re halfway there already. Just needs that last push. That one thing that we’re missing. Fear. They need to fear us, Tony, and they will.”

“Do you really think I’d give it to you? After everything you’ve done?” Tony demanded. 

“Give what to him?” Steve asked. “What’s he talking about?”

“Do you really think that just because you have an idea, it belongs to you?” Stane snapped at Tony. “You always were naïve, Tony. You’ll give it to me. You’ll give it to me, and it will be the start of a whole new generation of weapons that will help steer the world back on course. Put the power where it belongs. In our hands. The  _ right  _ hands,” Stane argued.

“You’re insane,” Tony retorted. “Do you really think after you sold me out to the Ten Rings, after what you did with my company, right under my nose, Obie! I trusted you! I’ve known you my whole life, for God’s sake, you were more of a father to me than my own was! I loved you, and you—you did this? All for money, for…Jesus, Obie, you know how I feel about slavery, you knew that, damn you, all those people, Obie, how  _ could _ you?"

“Spare me your righteous indignation, Tony. They were just slaves. Now, as much as I enjoy our reminiscing, you know why I’m here,” Stane paused. Steve could feel the tension radiating off Tony behind him, and tightened his grip on the shield. “Where’s the rocket, Tony? The one you and Hale were working on over in Europe?” Stane demanded.

“Bottom of the sea, where it belongs,” Tony retorted in a tight, clipped tone. 

“For your Captain’s sake, I hope that isn’t true,” Stane told him, scratching at his eyebrow with one finger while he considered Steve and Tony. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, Tony. Makes no matter to me. I want that rocket design, and, well…it looks my ship is going to need a few repairs before she’s underway again. Underwater mine? Clever,” he said with a flat grimace, his eyebrows raised in an expression that was almost akin to pride.

“Not even I can fix that, Obie, come on,” Tony protested.

“Oh, I don’t know. With the right incentive…” Stane mused, eyebrows raised as he looked at Steve. “I’ll bet you can do a lot of things, if you put your mind to it, let’s say.” 

Behind him, Steve heard Tony spit out a soft curse. Steve glanced out at the ship. Dark, black smoke still billowed from the hole in the side of the ship, and she was listing to one side, sinking lower in the water, but the crew must have put the fire out by now and started trying to pump the water. It  _ might _ be salvageable, Steve supposed, at least if someone like Shellhead— _ Tony Stark _ , shit—if Tony Stark was working on it. Maybe. If anyone could, he supposed it would be Tony, and it sounded like Stane was going to make Steve’s life dependent on it, if Steve gave him the chance. He looked back over at Stane and sucked in a deep, bracing breath. He wasn’t going to be leverage for this man to hurt Shellhead. 

“But, you were always smarter than everyone else, weren’t you?” Stane was saying. “The cleverest man in the room. Except when it came to people. Except when it really mattered. Then, you were blind, Tony, so blind and so easily led,” Stane said, a disgusted look crossing his face. “Howard tried to bend you to his will his own way, but he was too stupid to see that all you ever needed was an ounce of kindness. A modicum of attention, a bit of encouragement, and you were eating out of my hand. It was so  _ easy _ , Tony, so easy, how could I resist? You wanted it so badly. People, Tony. People, you never see coming. All that intelligence, all that learning, and you’re consistently surprised by people, consistently underestimate what—”

Steve hurled the shield in an arc. He couldn’t have quite explained how he knew how to throw it, except that it just made sense in his head to do it that way. It bounced off the man opposite him, knocking him unconscious, then slammed into Stane’s chest, sending him flying backwards. It was back in Steve’s hand before anyone seemed to have been able to realize what was happening. Steve looked down at his outstretched hand holding the shield with a moment of shock, then he threw it again, this time knocking Rumlow’s gun out of his hand before ricocheting into Rollins. This time, when the shield flew back into Steve’s hand, he was already in motion for the next throw, aiming this one at one of the other men who were looking to get a shot off, then caught the shield again as he spun and slammed it into Rollins’ face with a satisfying crunch. 

The four men remaining standing were over their shock and all in motion now. It was Rumlow Steve focused on first, though. Rumlow was scrambling in the dirt for his gun, so Steve spun and kicked him upside the head, knocking him flat. A bullet pinged off the shield from his left, followed by a surprised grunt from the man who had fired it. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Steve threw the shield again. It bounced off one of the men just as he aimed his pistol at Tony, and returned to Steve’s hand like it was on a tether. Catching the shield one-handed, Steve punched hard, connecting with someone’s jaw, turned and kicked Rumlow in the side, where Steve knew he was hurt from earlier. Rumlow groaned and slumped over, falling face first into the dirt where he writhed in pain.

Another bullet fired, but the shield stopped that one, too. Steve threw it again, where it caught one of the men in the back, sending him face down into the dirt. Steve caught it against his palm again, almost easily, he realized. Rumlow twisted around, the pistol raised from where he had grabbed it while rolling around in the sand. Steve threw the shield again, connecting with Rumlow’s arm, then caught the shield again and brought it down against the side of Rumlow’s head with a sickening crunch, sending him slumping to the ground in a heap. Steve sensed movement, and twisted around, and found himself facing the end of a pistol and Stane’s angry, twisted face. 

“You dumb Irish whore, you think you can—” Stane began.

Steve started to lift the shield, had a moment to think that he wasn’t going to be fast enough, and then Stane grunted in surprise, went wide-eyed, and sank to the ground. 

Tony stood where Stane had been, a large rock in one hand, the necklace in the other. 

“I’d like the record to note that I helped,” Tony said, glancing around him at the bodies in the sand. He grabbed for the pistols, then straightened and turned to Steve. “And also, can I just say that I have never wanted you more.”

“Shellhead,” Steve said with mild exasperation. He shook his head and took a couple of the pistols from Tony and shoved them into the waist of his pants. Tony took one for each hand, then tossed the rest into the sea. 

“Are you kidding? That was amazing, is what that was. Is that the old shield I found?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. I thought, maybe you knew what it was?” Steve said. “I’ve never seen metal like this. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, the weight, the way it moves, and it took a cannonball—right here!—and there’s not even a mark. Damn thing bounced right off it. The bullets, too. And nothing! Not a scratch. I barely even felt it. That’s not possible.”

“Oh, we’re going with what’s possible, now, are we? You fell in love with an octopus-man and broke an ancient curse, and that was just  _ today _ ,” Tony huffed. 

“It wasn’t just today. I just…figured it out today,” Steve corrected with an apologetic shrug. 

“Well, apparently, self-awareness is what counted for Huehuecóyotl,” Tony replied, then smiled. “Just glad you figured it out,” he added softly, then continued, “Honestly, I found it in some old ship that went down near Port Royale. Wakandan, by the markings on it, which doesn’t make sense because the ship was far too advanced, and what are the Wakandans even doing with seafaring technology? They’re by Lake Turkana, sure, but they’re landlocked as far as getting to the ocean. Mostly herders and farmers, so why would they have anything…” Tony cut off with a distracted frown. “Anyway, uh, not the point,” he amended quickly at Steve’s pointed look. “I saw it and thought maybe you could, I don’t know, clean it up and fry stuff on it. Like a big, you know, dinner plate or something,” Tony suggested.

“A big  _ dinner plate _ ,” Steve repeated slowly, frowning down at his shield. 

“Hey, now, don’t make that face, I love your big dinner plate. Now. It’s very impressive,” Tony grinned, clapping him on the back. “Um. So, not that I mind a little public nudity, as you might have heard or read about me, but…”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Steve said, shaking his head as he quickly doffed his shirt and handed it back to Tony, who tied it around his waist again. He could feel his face heating, but cleared his throat and hoped Tony hadn’t noticed. Tony was smiling knowingly at him, though, so that seemed like a lost cause. “So, what now?” he asked, looking back to where Stane and his men lay prone in the sand. Prone for now, anyway. It wouldn’t be long and they’d be waking up. Then what?

“I, for one, suggest we introduce these fine, upstanding gentlemen to the benefits of island living, what say you?” Tony asked.

“What?” Steve replied. “You tore part of the tender boat’s hull apart, and you blew a hole the size of a piano in the  _ Iron Monger _ ,” Steve reminded him. “Are you suggesting we, ah. Swim for it?”

“Yeah, that was a lot of destruction inside twenty minutes, even for me,” Tony replied. “In my defense, they were trying to kill you. And me. Mostly you, though. Octopus-me really didn’t like that, what can I say? I rather think actual me wouldn’t like it much either, come to think of it. Anyway, no swimming, not this time. This way,” Tony ordered, waving at Steve to follow him. “Bring your dinner plate.”

“Where are we going?” Steve asked.

“To the  _ Marvel,  _ of course!” Tony said, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

“The  _ Marvel _ ?” Steve repeated in surprise. “You kept her! I thought you’d left, and she must have sunk.”

“Couldn’t let her just drift away like that, not after we worked so hard on fixing her,” Tony replied, then grimaced sheepishly. “After the  _ Quinjette  _ rescued you, I went back for her. Good thing I’m sentimental, I suppose.”

“I kept my shell,” Steve said, then immediately flushed with a deep, red heat. 

“Did you, now?” Tony replied, eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded Steve, his face breaking into a surprised, but pleased, expression. “Well,” he said, swallowing thickly and clearing his throat. “It was yours. So. I’m…I’m glad. Shall we?” 

Steve nodded and followed Tony. They walked down the beach, past the broken-hulled tender boat, and rounded the corner. There, on the other side of the cave of standing rocks, near where Steve had stumbled out in his mad dash that first night, sat the  _ Marvel. _ Steve grinned, whistling lowly at the sight. 

“I can’t believe she’s really here,” Steve said, then laughed. “What am I saying? I can’t believe half of this. At least.”

“She’s not much to look at, admittedly, but she got you off this rock once. Let’s hope she has another miracle up her sleeve,” Tony said. He looked out at the burning wreckage of the  _ Iron Monger _ that was slowly slipping lower and lower into the water and let out a sigh. “We should probably try to get out there and grab some supplies before she goes. Think we can take whoever’s left on there? How many you reckon are left? Have to be three for the cannons, at least. I can get us food again, but the fresh water situation is going to be a problem, though.”

“No, it isn’t,” Steve said, looking out at the horizon.

“I do love your giddy optimism, Steve, I do, don’t get me wrong, but—” Tony started, running a hand through his hair.

“Tony. Hush. Look,” Steve said, pointing. Just behind the  _ Iron Monger _ , another ship was closing in fast in the distance. It was huge, clearly a warship by her size, Steve could tell that even from this far away. 

“Friendly?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think…” Steve trailed off. “Navy.” 

“Doesn’t necessarily mean friendly. You said some guy from the government was poking around. Wait. Is that…” Tony trailed off, squinting as he shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand. “It can’t be…”

“It is!” Steve grinned. “It’s the  _ Man O’War _ ! Look, see her flag at the bottom of the others? That’s an Engineering Corp flag. The beaver. Because they build things, see? Rhodes is probably the only Naval Captain flying one, I reckon. Has to be him!”

“Rhodey,” Tony breathed out, a smile splitting his face. “But, what’s he even doing here? How? For God’s sake, this is the middle of nowhere, how in the world did he even—oh. Oh. Steve! You—you wonderful, brilliant man!”

“I wrote to him,” Steve said, somewhat proudly, he had to admit. “About the duplicate manifests and cargo lists, like we talked about. I promised you I would try to see what I could do, remember? I actually wrote to a bunch of people, but I got to thinking, maybe he’d be more interested in Stark Trading Company moving slaves than maybe others would, you know? So, I wrote to him about it, and, well, I guess he must have come down here after Stane, huh? If he’s been tracking Stane’s ship, he could’ve seen the smoke from miles away.”

“Oh, Rhodey definitely would have been interested in something to do with Stark Trading Company,” Tony replied. 

“Rhodey?” Steve repeated, trying out the nickname Tony had used. “You know him! Back on the  _ Marvel _ , you got all excited when I mentioned him.”

“He was my military liaison before the War,” Tony explained. “I think it was a public relations stunt, to be honest, or maybe because he had an engineering background, I don’t know. Ended up, he was the only one they ever sent that I didn’t either fire or drive off. Somehow, he ended up as my best friend. Imagine that. Come on, let’s see if that tender boat has some rope or something in it we can use to tie up Obie and his merry band of mercenaries,” Tony suggested, clapping Steve on the shoulder. 

It took a while to get Stane, Rumlow, Rollins and the other men tied up, and Steve got to— _ had _ to—punch Rumlow again when he started to come around. By the time he and Tony had them all trussed up, Captain Rhodes and his own ashore boats had reached the island. Watching Rhodes’ face when he realized Tony was alive, the deep bond between the two of them was readily apparent. Thinking about all the time the two of them had lost, it made Steve miss Bucky all the more. When he got back to New York, he was going to be a better friend, even if that friendship looked a little different now, he resolved to himself. He’d wasted far too much time paying attention to everything that had changed, to what they had lost, instead of focusing on what they had, and he knew that now. He thought maybe Nat had been trying to tell him that, once upon a time, but he had been too full of guilt and self-recrimination to see it. 

In fact, Rhodes greeted Steve almost like a long-lost friend, though not with nearly the affection he had for Tony, of course. Still, he had gotten Steve’s letter and told them he came at once, intent on talking to Stane and getting to the bottom of all of this for himself, only to find Stane out to sea and some shadowy government agency asking a lot of questions, which was a suspicious enough series of coincidences to set Rhodes off on Stane’s trail. Stane and the rest of his crew, including the few the  _ Man O’War’s _ sailors had plucked from the sinking  _ Iron Monger  _ and the shallows around the island, were currently stewing in the  _ Man O’War’s _ brig for transport back to port and, presumably, trial on a variety of charges. 

It had been surprisingly hard to leave their little island. Steve caught Tony hesitating, too, as he climbed into the boat with Rhodes for the short trip back to the  _ Man O’War. _ Both of them, Steve noticed, kept casting lingering looks as the Navy men rowed them back to Rhodes’ ship, though they were taking a piece of it with them, Steve supposed, since Rhodes’ ashore boat had towed the  _ Marvel _ behind it, at Tony’s insistence.

Ensconced in Captain Rhodes’ quarters on the  _ Man O’War _ , Steve smiled a bit at the memory as he waited for Tony to return from his meeting with Captain Rhodes. They had been at it for hours, though Steve supposed they had a lot of catching up to do between them, all things considered. It was dark now, though, and the ship was swaying a bit as she cut through the water at a faster clip than what Steve was accustomed to. Someone had brought him a tray of food earlier, along with a change of clothes, though they were a bit on the tight side. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until then, but he had devoured every bit of food on the tray in just a few minutes. Now, though, he was full, his thirst quenched, and all the worry about Stane and what he might do to Shellhead was gone. They were safe. Stane was in custody. They were going home.

And Shellhead was  _ Tony Stark. _

It didn’t really surprise Steve that Shellhead was someone amazing, at least once he had a chance to think about it.  _ Of course _ , Shellhead would be someone brilliant and extraordinary. None of that was exactly a shock, just, well,  _ Tony Stark _ . Steve had read nearly every one of Stark’s Amazing Adventures growing up, and here he was, Tony Stark in real life, claiming to be in love with Steve. With Steve Rogers. Irish, Catholic, day laborer, erstwhile artist, Steve Rogers. A nobody. Not to mention a man. But, Tony said…he said it was the only way the curse could be broken, and broken it clearly was, so…

It was a lot to take in.

“Is it me, or does food that is not fish taste absolutely fantastic?” Tony said by way of greeting as he pushed open the door and shut it behind him. He, too, had changed, Steve saw, except he was wearing a fine, gray suit that fit him far better than what Steve had changed into. “Honestly, if I never eat another fish again, it will be too soon. Did you eat? Good,” Tony said at Steve’s nod. He sank down in the chair opposite Steve with a heaving sigh and ran a hand through his hair, puffing out a burst of air that fluttered his lips. “Rhodey wanted to hear everything about Stane I could tell him so he could send a message back to the Department.”

“What will happen to him? Stane, I mean,” Steve asked.

“He’ll hang, most likely, along with the rest of them,” Tony replied. 

“What about…what he saw?” Steve pressed.

“Do you really think anyone’s going to believe the ravings of a doomed slaver and attempted murderer?” Tony replied. “Besides, even if there are those who might have minds open enough to believe what Stane might say, they have no proof. This,” he said, pulling the necklace from his pocket, “very much belongs to me. And I’d like to see them try to take it.”

“Did you tell Captain Rhodes?” Steve asked.

“Rhodey? Yeah. Enough, anyway. Didn’t figure he wanted quite all of the particulars,” Tony said, waggling his eyebrows at Steve with a slight grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “Speaking of the particulars, I promised you answers. I’m sure you have questions. Starting with how I became the creature you called Shellhead in the first place, I would imagine.” Steve nodded. 

“Well,” Tony began, sucking in a breath. “That part of the story takes us back to just before the start of the War. I was in Europe, working with William Hale on rocketry design, as you might have heard Obie mention, when I received a letter from the President, asking for my assistance with what he felt would soon become an untenable situation with the South. War was coming, he warned, and he wanted to keep it short and as bloodless as possible. After some failed attempts, I soon started working on something that I thought might actually meet his goals. A weapon, unlike anything the world had seen before. Something that would make the South think twice before starting a war they couldn’t possibly win. A rocket.”

“Rocket?” Steve repeated. He’d heard the word, he thought, but wasn’t sure what Tony meant by it. 

“Think of a catapult, except it can be aimed with precision, travel longer distances, and carry enough ordinance on it to cause an explosion that could take out a ship this size,” Tony told him. “One day, we might even be able to launch a rocket that goes across an entire ocean. We could fight wars with the push of a button,” Tony replied. 

“Really?” Steve said, blinking at him in bewilderment.

“Really,” Tony repeated. “I was working on a prototype, something beyond what even Hale was doing. The Jericho, I called it. I was going to end war. Me. Tony Stark was going to make war obsolete. Peace in our time, thanks to one weapon so dangerous that surely, no one would want to use it more than once. Or so I told myself.”

“That’s…not how it works,” Steve said with a sad smile, looking up at Tony with a sort of shared regret.

“You don’t say?” Tony quipped back, then sighed. “But, I was very good at convincing myself that what I wanted to do anyway was the right thing.”

“So, this Jericho that was going to end war, that’s the rocket Stane wanted you to build for him,” Steve guessed. 

“I was carrying the prototype with me back from Europe on the  _ Avalon _ ,” Tony said. “One reason for my hasty departure from Europe was a missive I received from Pepper. Pepper Potts, my assistant,” Tony explained.

“From your Adventures!” Steve said, finding himself grinning. It seemed strangely delightful that all of this was real. 

Tony nodded, scratching at his chin where he had clearly shaved and trimmed his goatee when he changed. “Some time ago, she had noticed some issues with the Company. Financial things. She has a head for numbers. Percentages. That kind of thing. Anyway, she was reviewing things for me as part of settling my father’s estate and started to come across discrepancies,” Tony said. “Which led her to look further into things, and then, eventually, she sent me word of her suspicions, along with some troubling financial information that supported her claims. Obie had been involved in something, something very profitable, that he was going to great lengths to keep off the books. Since he was down here in the Caribbean, there were only so many things it could be. I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I would stop here before returning to Washington, to confront him, man to man. I thought I owed him that,” he scoffed. 

“But then the Ten Rings attacked the  _ Avalon _ ,” Steve said.

“They did,” Tony confirmed with a grimace. “As you probably already figured out, Obie was running slaves from the Southern states down to South America and Cuba. That’s the double manifests and cargo lists I showed you. One for the customs house, one to make sure he got paid. He was also funneling weapons to the South in preparation for the War he knew was coming. One he hoped to profit on, and continue to profit from, if he could help the South win. But, either way, as a weapons manufacturer, we won from a protracted war, and he knew that. He couldn’t have me end it all before it had a chance to get started and give up all those lucrative government contracts,” Tony told him, a shadow passing over his face. “All those people who died…who suffered. And he didn’t care, as long as it increased our profit margin.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tony,” Steve told him. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. You were—”

“Off gallivanting all over the globe while my ships were crammed full of slaves who now may never know freedom?” Tony demanded in a tight, awful voice. He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced away before dragging his gaze back to Steve. “I’ll write to Pepper as soon as we are in port and let her know of my miraculous return. God, she’s going to be—so happy to have her old job back. I hear Obie had her in the clerical department,” Tony snorted grimly, looking down at his lap with a small, flat smile before raising his eyes to Steve again. “She might be able to track some of them down using the manifests and cargo lists, I don’t know,” he sighed. “It might be the best I can do.”

“You’ll find them, Tony. I know you will,” Steve assured him with a surprising amount of certainty. Tony would, he was sure of it. He didn’t think Tony would be able to truly rest until he did. 

“Anyway, the Rings were supposed to sink the whole ship, but you can’t trust a pirate, and good thing for me, I guess,” Tony continued with a grim set to his features. “The  _ Avalon _ put up quite the fight, though, but it became clear that she was outmatched. I couldn’t let the Jericho fall into the hands of the Rings, so I offloaded it and everything to do with it. All my papers, everything went overboard. I thought that would be the end of it.”

“They took you prisoner,” Steve filled in. 

“Someone must have told them about the Jericho. One of the crew, maybe. I can’t blame them, their lives were on the line, but Raza knew a good thing when he heard it,” Tony said. “He wanted me to build one for him. A weapon that would make him essentially a king down here. I refused.”

“I imagine they didn’t take your refusal all that well,” Steve said with a frown. “Is that when they…”

“The necklace? No. No, that was later,” Tony told him, “though let’s just say they were very, ah, persuasive regarding their need for the Jericho.”

“Tony…” Steve said, brow furrowing into concern. “Did they…”

Tony waved him off. “I quickly changed my mind, or appeared to, anyway. What I was really planning was something else entirely. There was another prisoner there, a man called Yinsen. He had been on the  _ Gulmira _ when they sank her, but, like me, he had skills that the Rings thought would be useful. He was a translator. Spoke all kinds of languages. You may have noticed there are hundreds of dialects down here, and it’s even worse among the pirate crews. He—he was a good man.”

“Was,” Steve repeated softly.

“Was,” Tony confirmed. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said.

“He made a choice,” Tony sighed, rubbing at his forehead and looking down. “He chose me. To live. You see, instead of building the Rings the weapon they wanted, I built a…well, I guess you’d call it a—a submersible. The Rings had no idea what a rocket was supposed to look like, you see, so it was easy enough to fool them. I was going to use it to help me and Yinsen escape,” he said with a frown as he picked at the edge of the chair cushion. “Everything worked fine with the escape, except—except when it didn’t,” he spat out the word with a bitter venom, then huffed out a breath and looked up at Steve. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Shel—Tony,” Steve said. “I know…I know how easy it is to blame yourself, though. Even when you shouldn’t.” Tony’s gaze was sharp, then he closed his eyes and nodded once. 

“The Rings figured out something was amiss just as we were preparing for our escape. I was prepared, though. The submersible was state of the art and equipped with a special kind of torpedo. Not stationary like what you’re used to. They moved through the water like rockets,” Tony told him.

“Really? Wow, that’s…wow,” Steve said, momentarily awed by the thought. 

“Half their island compound came down. Unfortunately, most of it came down on me and Yinsen. We were trapped. The submersible was too damaged to be much use at that point, and I could hear Raza’s men coming our way. I thought, that was it. That was the end. At least I’d taken most of them with me, you know?” Tony said.

Steve nodded. That, he could definitely understand. 

“But, then, Yinsen, he—he said there was a way to survive, maybe,” Tony told him, mouth twisting. “Something Raza stole from some holy man or voodoo priestess or some such. He had seen them use it before, he said. If we could get it, there was a chance. I thought he meant a chance for both of us. A—a weapon, a boat, a secret way out, maybe. I didn’t know he meant…”

“The necklace,” Steve said.

“I’ve encountered all kinds of supposedly cursed objects in my travels,” Tony recounted, his voice heavy, “it figures that the one that truly is, I end up finding when I’m about to drown, courtesy of my own weapons. Yinsen said Raza kept it in his quarters, in a locked chest. The Rings were after us, though. We weren’t going to make it in time. I could see that. So could Yinsen. He…sacrificed himself. So that I could have a chance. Took one of the few grenades I had managed to save from the submersible and ran back to try throw it at the pirates, buy us some time. It worked. Except, they shot Yinsen, just as he threw it.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Steve said. “He sounds very brave.”

“He was,” Tony agreed with a flat smile. “Other than Rhodey, the bravest man I’d known, until, well, recently, I suppose,” he added with a slight nod. “I ran after him, of course. Had to duck when the explosion hit, but then I found him. He was bleeding pretty badly by that point, but he started to tell me what to look for. A blue stone, different than any other stone I’d seen before, perhaps set into a necklace. He said that if it was what Raza thought it was, it would save me, but at a price. I was so…angry. So angry at him. We had a plan, I said, we were supposed to stick to the plan,” Tony ground out. “This was always the plan, he said. His family, the one he told me he was going to see again when we escaped, they had been on the  _ Gulmira _ when the Rings took him. He said, if he used the stone, it would be the end of him, but for me, it didn’t have to be.”

“Someone would need to fall in love with you,” Steve said with a small smile. 

“Someone would need to fall in love with me,” Tony confirmed. “A difficult enough task under the best of circumstances, I assure you.”

“That’s not true,” Steve frowned.

“Hmmm. Well, you’re biased,” Tony pointed out, though there was a slight smile to the words. “But, I appreciate the sentiment. Not many would share it, though, which…complicated things, to say the least. The stone, Yinsen said, would transform me, and to undo it, to become myself again, someone must love me, truly love me. And, what was more, I would have to love them, too. The stone, you see, is an exchange of souls and required as much if it was to be mastered. I didn’t know what he was talking about, of course. I thought it was blood loss, to be honest,” he shrugged almost apologetically.

“But, it wasn’t,” Steve said, jaw going hard.

“No. No, it wasn’t,” Tony sighed. “I didn’t believe it. Not then. But, Yinsen died for this stupid stone, for this ridiculous idea, so by God, I was not going to leave it with the people who had killed him and his family. I got into Raza’s quarters, jimmied the lock on the chest, and sure enough, there was the stone. Raza and his men were coming around a different way, though. I could hear them shouting. I don’t know if they knew what I was after or not, but they were determined, let’s say. I ran for it. Had no idea where I was going, just ran. I ended up right at the water’s edge, where one of their ships was sinking, courtesy of one of my torpedoes. They were decidedly unhappy about all of that. I knew, if they caught me, they would kill me. I heard Raza shout at me, telling me to drop the necklace. He seemed rather desperate about it, and so I…didn’t.”

“You put it on,” Steve guessed.

Tony nodded. “I put it on. Let me tell you,  _ that _ was not what I expected.”

“I’ll bet,” Steve huffed.

“I think I more or less fell into the water at that point,” Tony continued. “Shock sort of happens when you suddenly go from two legs to six, as it turns out. I must have passed out. When I woke, I was staring up at Raza and his men through the water. They were shooting at me, so I swam. Rather awkwardly at first, but I got the hang of it fairly quickly, made my escape. I surfaced some distance away while the island still smoldered. Which was when I realized I couldn’t take the necklace off. Not without debilitating pain, at least. I’m not sure what would have happened if I had actually tried, as I suspect that Raza did to his unfortunate test subject. I suspect it would have killed me. Sure felt like it would. Eventually, I found the island. It was out of the way of most of the shipping lanes, as you quickly surmised, and made a good hideout for my little forays against the Rings from time to time. Then, that storm blew through, and a good storm always seems to raise interesting wreckage, so I was swimming around, hoping to find a few things, when you rather spectacularly crashed into my life.”

“Jesus, Tony,” Steve said, shaking his head. “That’s…”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, his voice heavy.

Steve stood up and walked over to the small windows at the back of Captain Rhodes’ quarters, bracing his hand against the wall for a moment. He heard Tony’s footsteps behind him and spared him a quick, rueful grimace before turning back to the dark sea laid out in front of him. 

“You must have hated it. Being the creature all those years,” Steve offered with a frown.

Next to him, he heard Tony let out a long, low breath. “A part of me hated it, yes. It was a hard life. Lonely. I knew there was so much going on that I could help with—the War, for example--but there was nothing I could do, and that was very frustrating. But, it also…” he broke off. Steve could feel him stiffen a bit at his side, then felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned, facing Tony, catching the intent look in his eyes as his gaze roved over Steve’s face. Steve wasn’t sure what Tony saw there, but he seemed satisfied. “I grew up with every possible advantage. And I used that largesse to do whatever I wanted. Lavish parties. Outrageous extravagances. Fantastic adventures. Chronicled by me, of course. You’d think that would make anyone happy, wouldn’t you? But, I wasn’t. I know, I know, poor, little rich boy.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” Steve said.

“You’d be right to,” Tony countered with a grimace.

“I was thinking it sounded—it sounded kind of, I don’t know. Empty,” Steve replied.

“And so it was,” Tony said. “As Shellhead, I had a purpose. Nothing but a purpose, admittedly, at least until you came along. Revenge, at first, yes, but then, it became more. I could make the world a better place. Protect people from facing the same fate as Yinsen and his family. The Rings were a scourge on these parts, a danger to everyone crossing these waters. I know that I can’t make up for the lives lost to my malfeasance, but I had to do  _ something _ . I had to.”

“What you did, that was…I mean, that was incredibly brave, Tony,” Steve said. “You did save lives, lots of them, I’m sure of it.”

“I like to think so,” Tony agreed with a wistful grimace. “I knew I could do more, though, if I was myself. With my resources at hand. I could do so much more. What was the point to all of this, I asked myself, why had I survived, and not Yinsen or a hundred better men than me, if not for some reason? There had to be a reason. But, I was imprisoned as the creature. Stuck. Until I could break that damned curse. All the stone asked was that I love someone, and they love me. Simple, right? People do it every day, all the time. Young, old, rich, poor, it’s so common as to be almost trite. And yet, everything that I had in this world, and I didn’t have the one thing I needed. It seemed impossible. No one had ever truly fallen in love with me as Tony Stark, not really, not without the benefits of what I could give them. Who would possibly love me as the creature? And then you came along,” he finished with a soft smile. “I don’t know if I thanked you yet. So, thank you. For loving me. You have no idea what it means to me. Or, maybe you do, I don’t know. Just…thank you.”

“I—I do, you know that, obviously with the—with the stone and all, but…you’re okay now, so,” Steve shrugged, putting one hand behind his head to rub at his neck. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced himself to say what he wanted to say. “I mean, you’re…you’re Tony Stark. And I’m, well. No one, really. So, you know. You don’t have to. Now. It’s okay, I get it, really.”

Tony tilted his head at him, giving him a quizzical look, drew in a long breath and shook his head. “I know it sounds strange,” he began, “but when I was Shellhead, everything that I used to define myself by, all of my crutches that I depended on to make people like me, everything I held out to the world to make them look over here and not really at me, it had been stripped away, and what was left…was just me. Shellhead, as you called me, was more me, more real, than I had been since I was a child. It’s Tony Stark who was the fantastical creature, as it turns out,” he added with a flat grimace. “But you? You fell in love with the truest parts of me, Steve. I had nothing to offer you. Nothing. But, you came back to me. You loved me enough to risk everything to come back to me, to this thing I was who couldn’t give you anything. You were willing to die to keep me safe, because you love me. Not Tony Stark,  _ me. _ You love me, and my soul  _ knows  _ it’s real. How could you possibly imagine I would let you go?”

“Really? You, ah. You mean that?” Steve breathed out, relief flooding him. He beamed a smile at Tony, who huffed out a laugh and returned it. 

“I have never meant anything more, and if you need further proof, I’ll put this thing back on right now and give Rhodey and his crew quite the spectacle,” Tony offered, holding the necklace up, “but, I’d honestly rather keep wearing this, for now, if it’s all the same to you,” he finished, tugging his shirt down far enough for Steve to see his sutler’s coin still rested there. 

“That’s…yeah,” Steve swallowed thickly, a swell of emotion warming his chest. “It’s yours. Guess it was kind of meant to be yours.”

“Thank you,” Tony replied, his voice soft and raw, his expression one of something almost like wonder. “I had to fall in love with you, too, remember. And I did, almost from the start, like I told you. But, like a lot of things in my life, I got it rather wrong at first. I wanted you to love me so very badly. Because of the curse, I told myself, and I thought, if you did, then we could break the curse, and I could, I don’t know, make everything up to you. I kept thinking, if you just stayed a bit longer, maybe. Maybe you would love me. You would love me, and I could take that damn necklace off and show you who I was. Take care of you, finally, the way I wanted to. Shower you with everything I wanted to give you. Not just pretty shells or what gold I could find in the wrecks, but everything you had ever dreamt of. Adventure. Comfort. Joy. Everything you talked about. I wanted so badly to make that happen for you.”

“You did, though. All of those things, you did make that happen. I don’t want anything else from you,” Steve protested. “And I liked the shell. That was…sweet.”

“I know. I still don’t quite understand—you have to realize, most of my life, people have wanted something from me, one way or the other, so here you were, and I wanted to give you all of that, and I  _ couldn’t _ —” Tony broke off. “I just kept thinking, soon. Soon, maybe, he’ll love me, and this will be over, and I can…make it right.” He looked up at Steve from under his lashes, a tight grimace on his face. “It took me a while, but I finally realized that I was more concerned about breaking the curse, freeing myself so that I could love you the way I knew how, than what was best for you. What you wanted. That…loving someone sometimes means putting their happiness above your own. And letting them go.”

“But,” Steve began, a frown forming. “Oh,” he said, blinking at Tony. “You…”

“I knew where the ships were.  _ Of course _ , I did,” Tony admitted with an apologetic sigh, his mouth twisting. “It had seemed impossible for so long, but after that night, I thought, maybe you—maybe you could. Maybe, just a little bit longer, and you could. I kept telling myself that each night we were out there. Just a little longer, and I’d make it all up to you. I’d make it  _ right _ . Except, it wasn’t going to be right, of course, because that’s not what love is, is it?”

“I woke up, and the  _ Marvel  _ was right there within sight of the _ Quinjette _ ,” Steve recalled. “You put me there. You knew I’d be found.”

“I should have done it sooner. I’m sorry, Steve, I truly am,” Tony said. “It was selfish of me, and I’m sorry.”

Steve looked away, biting his lip between his teeth. “I kept looking for you,” he said. “The whole trip back to port. I kept looking for you. Then trying to get back to you once I made it into port, except no one would take me. Turns out Stane had blacklisted me, though I didn’t know it at the time. From the moment I set foot on the  _ Quinjette _ , all I wanted to do was get back to you, you crazy, self-sacrificing fish!” he said, gripping Tony’s shoulders and giving him a light shake. 

“Technically, I was a cephalopod, not a fish,” Tony corrected.

“I didn’t  _ know  _ I loved you, then. Or, maybe I did, but just couldn’t quite admit it to myself, but I did,” Steve said. “I kept having fantasies of spotting you in the water and jumping ship. I wanted to stay with you. It scared me, how much I wanted to stay, that was part of the problem,” he sighed. “You couldn’t have given me a little longer to come to my senses?”

“I’m trying to apologize here, and you’re berating me for not keeping you to myself on a deserted island? Seriously? And _ I’m _ the crazy, self-sacrificing one?” Tony demanded with a teasing smile.

“Yes,” Steve said, jutting his chin out.

“Please. You hopped aboard a ship with a known murderer and his bunch of mercenaries, remember,” Tony pointed out. “That’s the kind of stupidly heroic nonsense you read about in books, Steve Rogers, so, please stop saying you’re no one, would you?” he demanded, clearing his throat. “You’re hardly no one, and I’ll thank you to stop referring to yourself that way. I swear, I think Rhodey was more impressed that I was rescued by Steve Rogers, Captain of the 107 th , Irish Brigade, than the fact that I can basically turn into an octopus at will. He’s a big fan, apparently. He says he’s been studying your tactics. He threatened to regale you with stories of my misspent time in Europe as a young man if I didn’t agree to bring you to dine with him and the officers tonight. Naturally, they’re lies, all of them, but I’d rather not spend my time debunking them.”

“You told him?” Steve asked, surprised for a moment, though he supposed if the situation was reversed and he could turn into a fish, he would tell Bucky. 

“Had to,” Tony nodded. “Though, the rest of the crew will be the bearers of a very exciting tale of my time escaping my pirate captors and ending up stranded on a deserted island until you miraculously appeared. Then how we managed to build a boat, but as it could only accommodate one with sufficient supplies, you made the heroic choice to set off to try to find rescue. Which you did. Obviously. And in the meantime, thwarted Stane’s plans, of which I made you aware, of course. It will make quite the Amazing Adventure, if I do say so myself. Know anyone who might be interested in some illustration work for it? Someone perhaps with the life experience that would lend itself to giving the illustration the kind of realism to which I aspire with my publications? If it’s any incentive, the position is a lifetime appointment and comes with one genius, inventor, billionaire, adventurer on the side. Oh, and an indoor pool. If that matters.”

“I might know someone who would be interested in that kind of position,” Steve grinned for a moment, then frowned. “You’re really going to write about this?”

“Why not? It’s quite the riveting tale, you have to admit,” Tony replied. 

“I guess,” Steve shrugged biting the inside of his cheek to hide his smile.

“You guess? You guess?” Tony chided. “Come on, Steve! Pirates. Sea monsters. Ancient cursed objects. A dastardly villain scheming behind the scenes. A hero appearing, just in the nick of time. A daring sea battle. Now, a timely rescue. Oh, and a love story, let’s not forget that. Not that I plan to be as, ah, forthcoming, as all that. The print edition will be, shall we say, somewhat  _ edited _ . Still, I’d say what we have here is what I would call the exciting conclusion of perhaps the greatest adventure I’ve ever had. What say you, Captain?”

Steve looked over at Tony. His eyes dropped down to where Tony’s shirt hung open at his collar, Steve’s sutler’s coin in its place at the center of Tony’s chest. “I think…maybe this is just the beginning. That’s what I…well, I’d like to think that, I guess.”

Tony studied Steve for a long moment, biting his lip. “The beginning. Of the greatest adventure. Yes. Yes, I think so,” he agreed in a rough, thick voice, his face softening into an aching tenderness that made his eyes curve into half-moons. Tony smiled, beautiful and bright, and tightened his hold on Steve’s hand. “After all, beginnings are the best part of the story, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Steve agreed, pulling Tony closer. “They most definitely are.”


	9. Epilogue

“Get inside before you freeze,” Jarvis admonished with a shiver as Steve stood in the doorway, tapping his boots on the step to scrape the snow and mud off. 

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Steve replied, handing him his overcoat, scarf and gloves. Like any number of changes that came with Tony, it had taken Steve awhile to get used to having a butler, and he still didn’t quite know what to do with Mr. Jarvis sometimes, but the man’s obvious affection for Tony, and by extension, Steve, made him feel more like a beloved uncle than hired help. 

“Is Tony back yet?” Steve asked. 

“Sir is waiting in the library, I believe, Captain,” Jarvis announced more formally. “I take it Master Peter is well settled with his Aunt for the weekend, then?”

“He is,” Steve smiled. “She won’t stop filling the new townhome with boarders. Says it’s too big and fancy just for her. I think Pete likes the chaos.”

“As if he doesn’t find enough of that between you and Sir,” Jarvis harrumphed pointedly. 

Steve grinned and clapped a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I don’t know how you manage to put up with us, Jarvis.”

“Daily prayer, Captain Rogers, daily prayer and lots of it,” Jarvis smiled. “If that’s all…”

“Good night, Jarvis,” Steve replied. 

He headed through the mansion’s marbled foyer and down the hall where oil lamps cast shadows against walls papered in red damask, works of art that no one but Steve probably ever looked at, and long, intricate rugs that carpeted the floor. Even after all this time, the luxury sometimes caught him off-guard. Not that it had been exactly difficult to grow accustomed to it, Steve had to admit. 

He could see the glow of the fireplace from under the door to the library. He wasn’t exactly surprised to push it open to find Tony leaning over the huge wooden table where a number of maps and sea charts were spread out, still others looped into rolls to one side.

A huge fireplace dominated one wall, and the rest of the room was lined with books, except for the wall just behind Tony’s desk. That one had a number of framed magazine covers of Tony, his various Amazing Adventures, and a few newspaper articles. ‘Stark Lives!’ one proclaimed. ‘Stark Adopts War Orphan,’ said another, and ‘Stark Foundation Funds Charity for Street Children’ on yet another, with a smaller article under it about the fundraising gala at the mansion, if only because it had a picture of Tony in his tuxedo with Steve just to his right, identified as ‘Tony Stark’s Bodyguard and fellow Adventurer, the war hero Captain Steven Rogers’. Steve always smiled at that one, since the paper initially called him something along the lines of ‘and employee’ whenever they caught a picture of him near Tony. Tony had been unhinged over the perceived slight, though Steve told him there was nothing really to be done about it. The paper would say what they wanted. They always did.

Tony bought the paper. 

Now, Steve was some version of ‘war hero’, ‘famed illustrator’, ‘adventuring partner’ or whatever euphemism the editors thought made Tony happy. 

“Plato said they were more advanced than any other civilization,” Tony said without looking up from the maps. “Now, I know that many people think he was just using the idea of Atlantis as a morality play in his stories. Just some fanciful notion of his ideal state, but it  _ is _ possible. Using a version of Roman concrete, they could have built structures in the sea, connected by canals, somewhat similar to Venice, I suppose.”

“I knew that was why we went to Venice,” Steve sighed. 

“I needed measurements. Anyway, supposedly, some cataclysm wiped them out,” Tony continued. “I’m thinking a volcanic eruption. If they did build their structures in the sea on some kind of floating islands, then certainly, an underwater eruption could have triggered a tidal wave and destroyed them. There are actually a lot of these lost civilization stories from all around the world. Solomon Islanders, for example, have a somewhat similar tale about a lost island, though it was high enough that I think that would have had to be a seafloor earthquake that swallowed it. I’m just saying, you can’t tell me there’s nothing at all to them. Based on the descriptions from the time, I’m guessing the city would have been somewhere off the Spanish coast, near the Strait of Gibraltar. Around here,” he said, tapping his finger on one of the charts.

“You told Peter he could come along on this one,” Steve said, walking over and planting a hip on the edge of the table.

“Well, in my defense,” Tony began, looking up at him, “he said he wanted to, so…”

“Tony,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I thought we were headed to Norway next.”

“The mysterious Fruit of Yggdrasill that supposedly allows one to travel from one end of the Nine Realms to the other,” Tony hummed. “I haven’t given up on it. I’d like to talk to your friends again. Well, not so much the brother. I’m fairly certain every other word he says is a lie, but Thor and his parents had some interesting theories. Next year, Norway. I promise.”

“But, you miss the sea,” Steve guessed. 

Tony smiled wanly at him. “I do,” he admitted, then straightened, his expression shifting a bit. “You know, speaking of missing the sea, it occurs to me…”

“Does it now,” Steve said, suppressing a smile.

“It occurs to me that we have the mansion all to ourselves for the evening. A rare occasion these days,” Tony observed. 

“It is, indeed,” Steve agreed. Absently, he pushed one of the weights that was holding the edge of the map down on the table, biting the inside of his cheek. Tony walked slowly around to where Steve leaned against the table, until he was close enough for Steve to feel his warmth, the brush of his legs, the smell of his cologne. He looked up at Tony, then huffed out a low chuckle. 

“Haven’t used the pool in a while,” Tony said. 

“No. We haven’t,” Steve replied, smiling a lopsided smile at him. 

“Give me ten minutes?” Tony suggested. Steve laughed, grinning widely, and nodded. 

The mansion’s pool was in the basement, a giant, white-tiled room lit by sconces on the walls. The far wall was a mural of tiny pieces of sea glass that Tony commissioned sometime after they returned from the Caribbean. Naturally, it depicted an octopus, all red and gold and splendid, with its tentacles unfurled across the span of the wall. Underneath it, on struts above the tile floor, sat the _Marvel_.  


Tony was already in the pool by the time Steve got down there, leaning against one side with his elbows braced behind him on the ledge. Steve undid the belt of his robe and tossed it aside, then stepped down in the salty water. Tony kept the pool warmed, even in the winter, through some process he’d tried to explain to Steve once. 

“Hey,” Steve said, wading through the water until he was standing in front of Tony. 

“Hey,” Tony replied, smiling as he leaned up to kiss Steve. He hummed in satisfaction as they broke apart, sighed, then smiled softly up at Steve. Reaching behind him, he plucked the necklace off the edge of the pool and held it up between them. “Still love me?” he asked, as he always did, even though he knew the answer.

“Always,” Steve replied. 

Tony smiled and kissed him again, lightly this time, then drew in a breath and sank under the water. The transformation never failed to amaze Steve. Blue light emanated from the stone, and Tony thrashed, making the water churn. Then, just as suddenly, it was over, and everything stilled. A familiar velvety touch slid up the back of Steve’s thigh and wrapped around his waist as Tony surfaced, beaming at him and making a happy, chittering sound. 

“Hey, Shellhead,” Steve smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it. I had a really good time writing it. 
> 
> If you did enjoy it, the only way I know is if you click the kudos and/or leave a comment. I really, really appreciate that effort. It lets me know that this is something worth doing and people are enjoying it. 
> 
> Want more Steve and Tony? Find me on tumblr and twitter as sabrecmc. I'm also on the Stony Discord as sabrecmc#2925. Thank you!!!!
> 
> Couple of things that might be of interest only to me: Rhodey's background in this is loosely (very loosely) based on Robert Smalls, who is quite interesting and was, in fact, one of the first African-American Navy Captains. The orphan trains that are mentioned in regards to Peter leaving New York were a real thing, as was the idea that you lost your kid if you couldn't pay for their upkeep at a boarding house type situation. The living conditions mentioned were actually worse in reality. Pigs in the street in New York City was a legit thing! Irish kids not being afforded a formal education was also true. The song Steve sings was, in fact, an Army marching song during the Civil War. I found it in the Congressional archives. There are a lot of little details like that in here. I found the 19th century history to be pretty interesting for Steve's background. As for Tony, William Hale was a British inventor working on rocketry around that time, so it seemed like something that could be good for Tony to be involved in. Underwater mines were stationary, unlike our torpedoes of today (though they were called torpedoes, but for consistency's sake, I didn't use that term). Submersibles existed, though were in limited use, but I'm sure Tony would have improved on everything. I can't think of everything, but suffice to say, I do a lot of research for fics, even when they are an excuse to write tentacle porn!
> 
> There are a number of comic references here, particularly with the Rings and Luke Cage. I think the story draws a bit on what I've read of Marvel Noir fic. Steve guarding a naked Tony from a group of aggressors is an ode to that particular comic book panel that we all probably remember seeing. 
> 
> Also, shout-out to you if you caught were Fury showed up.


End file.
